


Gold Lion

by NoisyGhost



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werecreatures, Angst, Blood and Gore, But also, F/M, Families of Choice, Fluff, Found Families, Slow Burn, alternate titles include: the lion the bitch and the wartable, and the inquisitor and dorians salty friendship brigade TM, werelion!cullen, why the fuck you lion, worlds slowest burn tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 13:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 60,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6660721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoisyGhost/pseuds/NoisyGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isadore had always kind of assumed Cullen was more of a dog person. Apparently not. </p><p>Werelion!Cullen AU because people on tumblr wanted it (and I did too).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

Cullen was hunched over in the yard with a dead chicken in his lap. Cognitively, he registered that the bird was dead, but dead things often look so like they’re just resting that there has to be a part of your brain that says  _ of course this living thing can’t be dead. _

But the terrifying part wasn’t that the bird was dead or that its blood was plastered on his chin and throat; the terrifying part was that he couldn’t quite tell you how it’d happened. It looked like a fox had gotten it’s maw on the poor animal, but the sky was still painted with a few oranges and night was always when the hunters came out.

He’d grown up hearing myths of the savage beasts that threatened the good  _ faithful  _ people of Thedas; the monsters that lingered in the dark with bright eyes and sharp teeth. But as a child with a self proclaimed air of maturity, he’d always assumed his parents bed time tales of woe were just that: stories to keep the children’s hands clasped at the statues of Andraste. 

Cullen never thought he had to pray to be saved. He thought he was good, even when he teased his sisters or argued with his brother. He thought he was good, even when he’d shirked chores or gotten into trouble. He thought he was a good, Andrastian boy. 

But still, there’s a dead bird in his hands, and no fox snuck over the fence to get to it. 

The tears are plastered to the sides of his cheeks in the next moment, diluting the darkening blood as it slides over his jaw. How could this have happened? How could he be responsible for the dead thing in his hands? 

“Cullen?” 

And suddenly the fear that was actively leaving his mouth in the form of sobs was lodged in the back of his throat. He fell silent, body rigid but shaking slightly, his back turned to his mother like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been. Which he was. Or at least he had; he had done something he shouldn’t have. But there was no sort of quip or witty excuse he could pull together to wheedle his way out of this. And he was no masochist, but he almost didn’t want to get out of this. 

“Ma--” he starts trembling; the moment he opens his mouth his voice fails him and he finds his dirty fingers clutching at the blood stained feathers all the harder. “--I didn’t mean to. I promise. I didn’t mean to--”

She’s kneeling in the dirt with him the next breath, arms wrapped around him, breathing only slightly unsteady. Like she knew. She knew something he didn’t and she completely anticipated this mess to happen sooner or later. 

“I know you didn’t,” she hushes, fingers gently pressing his curly locks flat against his temple. “You are alright.” 

But he wasn’t. He was ten years old and all he wanted to do was help people. Even the templars had humored his endeavors. What would the chantry think of him now? Good, faithful boys don’t have sharp teeth that appear out of nowhere and stab at the inside of his mouth. Good, faithful boys don’t murder their own farm animals for no reason they could comprehend. And good, faithful boys certainly wouldn’t be caught smeared in blood in the middle of the day. 

Maybe it was because he was a child and he couldn’t quite understand the situation, but once he’d started crying, he couldn’t stop. And with the tears came muffled apologies and silent prayers that he be cured of whatever had caused him to act this way. 

But the Chantry reminds them that the Maker had turned his back on them. If he wouldn’t answer the prayers of innocent people and priests, why would he bother with a boy who’d just found out he wasn’t quite human?


	2. Cat and Mouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *finger pistols* this is Not Good but people wanted me to write it so here you go my dudes. Follow the AU tag for this on tumblr: http://ghost-phage.tumblr.com/tagged/lion%20boyfriend%20au
> 
> And if you've never seen Isadore, here's her ref: http://noisyghost.tumblr.com/post/139565046427/i-didnt-like-the-last-ref-i-made-so-heres-a-new

Isadore had not slept properly since they’d sealed the Breach. Part of her had assumed that as soon as it was closed, she could finally make her escape; finally get away from the Inquisition and get back on with her life. That had been her plan since the conclave, at least. 

But here she is, staring at the scaffolding and debris that littered Skyhold’s courtyard, really just wondering when they’d finally get the bar set up. Drunk was the only thing she wanted to be right then.

What she absolutely does not want to be, is Inquisitor. But the big fucking sword kind of sealed that deal, and she’d already made a half-assed promise to save the world, so now of course people had faith in her. Which, really, was only their fault. 

Since she’d gotten the anchor, life had become at least twice as hard as before. Or maybe not  _ hard _ , per say; it was just that she was serving people besides herself. Good people. Plus, she’d never expected to encounter so many damned demons. In fact, the amount of things trying to kill her on a daily basis was… well, probably not all that different than from before. But these things had bigger swords. And sometimes fire. Which at this point was kind of whatever. She was ready to punch a dragon in the face.

(Bull had egged on such tactics, but the Commander suggested, rather insistently, against that sort of approach). 

Ah, yes. And then there was the Commander. Who had actively avoided her since what happened at Haven. And he wasn’t subtle about it either; he nearly fell down the court yard steps when he saw her walking to the war table. And she was so damned mad at him, she would have let him fall right on that pretty face of his. 

She exhales. She had to be at least a little real with herself; she was probably avoiding him as much as he was avoiding her. Eventually things would have to be confronted, but to try and pry an answer from him would prove that she actually did have a heart and had gotten remotely attached to the people here because she cared enough to ask. 

Well, that’s still what she’s saying to herself. Another exhale, this one lengthier.

Her forearms are resting against the stone of the battlements. The walls protected from much of the cold mountain air, but it was still distinctly chillier up here, and she wished a shadow wasn’t cast on her back so she could at least soak up a little more sun. 

She’d been staring out at the courtyard for way too long. It was time to go back inside and do something else. Literally  _ anything  _ else. So she let her fingers brush against the rock lightly as her hands fall back to her sides, feet taking her back to the door of the tower. 

It always felt a little dingy and stuffy in here, but she liked at least some of the company, and it was always easier to hide if Dorian was in the way to fend off scouts with his sharp tongue. 

“Dorian, can you put your necromancy to use? I am afraid I feel dead and need you to resurrect me.” She’s being dramatic, pressing her brow against the spines of several books on the shelf he’d adopted as his own.  

“I’m afraid that’s not how it works. But I will be sure to give you a stunning eulogy,” is his reply, half a smirk tossed to her as she turns to lean against the bookcase. “Don’t worry. I won’t let them bury you dressed in something hideous.”  

“A true friend.” 

Of course ninety percent of their banter was hinged on jokes and petty quips, but she did genuinely mean the last bit. Ever since they’d gotten lost in the future together, Dorian’s opinion always seemed to mean a great deal more than she let on. 

Which was a nice sentiment. But then she remembers what was on her mind and felt just as anxious as before. 

“You seem to be having fun in here at least,” she continues, pushing away from the shelf to cross her arms. 

“I’d hardly call it fun,” he half scoffs before continuing. “The lack of proper historic Tevinter texts in this collection is appalling.”

“I’m so terribly sorry we’ve subjected you to such hardships…” a pause.  _ It’s ok, Isadore, you can ask for help every now and then. _ “While you’re diving in, could I ask a favor of you?” 

“A favor? Depends on the favor, of course.” 

“Nothing particularly strenuous, I promise. But if you happen to find any kind of books on beastiology or the like, I’d much appreciate you giving it to me for a look.” 

“Beastiology? Now how did that ever peak your interest?” 

“I’m looking for new suitors,” she kids. 

“Hm. You probably would have about as much luck courting a bear as you would a good man.” Dorian had absolutely no idea how relevant his quip was. “But I suppose I can keep an eye out for you.” 

“Well I'm sure I'll be back here soon enough to check on your endeavors anyway. Thank you in advance, though.”

“Only for you, Inquisitor.”

 

* * *

 

 

_ The snow wasn’t as cold as it had felt before. Not because she’d gone numb or grown accustomed to it, but because her attention was so powerfully trained on something else, touch no longer became a sense.  _

_ “Cullen, what did you...:”  _

_ He’s staring at her for what could have been forever, snow catching in his fur mantle. But that’s not what she’s looking at. Her bow had all but fallen to the ground, and the only thing that kept it from doing so was her natural instinct to never drop a weapon (and the cold probably froze it there as well).  _

_ What she is looking at is his face. He brings a gloved hand to his mouth to wipe off some of the blood that was smeared across his lips and chin, but it was clearly still dripping down his neck into his armor.  _

_ And he never broke eye contact with her.  _ **_He just stared_ ** _.  _

_ His eyes weren’t right. Like the whites had turned dark and stormy to emphasis the golden glow of his irises. His face wasn’t right either. It was an odd expression to describe. His lips were slightly pouted, but not intentionally--it was as if his teeth didn’t quite sit in his mouth right, and all his features carved themselves into a snarl.  _

_ She’d seen that look before. On wild animals she’d hunted who wanted to kill her as much as she wanted to eat. _

 

* * *

 

 

“Inquisitor,” Cullen starts with a swallow, making an impressive effort not to stutter. Isadore had basically made a beeline to his office after she’d spoken with Dorian. Her own theories still bubbled around in her head, but she’d had enough of this awkward air and she thought he deserved at least one last chance to explain himself before she became a complete conspiracy theorist. “Is there something I can help you with?” 

Isadore locks her golden stare with his for as long as the silence persists (which it doesn't for long; he's quick to divert his eyes elsewhere). 

“We're talking about Haven,” she finally speaks, mouth pressed into a line, full lips flattened by her muted anger. 

“What happened at Haven was a tragedy--”

“You know that's not what I'm referring to.” 

The ice in her tone was blatant, but even with arms crossed and shoulders held back, her heart thudded loudly in her chest. Part of her loved a good argument, but only with people she didn't care about…. 

“I'm… I am not sure what you want me to say,” he shakes his head, fingers quickly pressed to the back of his neck to hide his discomfort. 

“I want you to tell me what I saw.” 

“Inquisitor I--I still am unclear what you mean--” 

“That's shit and you know it!” She snaps, fingers clenched into fists as her hands fall to her sides. Reeling in her outburst, she continues through grit teeth. “I am not crazy. I saw you. I saw what you did to that Templar. And I told no one because I expected you to tell me the truth. This isn't about you. I need to know if I can trust my commander.”

There's silence in the air for a long time. But she waits. She waits because she needs an answer, needed to know if she could trust this man. 

She thought she could. She trusted the man that had convinced her not to run away from the inquisition. She trusted the man who blushed wildly when Dorian and she competed to see who could make his cheeks more red. She trusted the man who was in awe when she out drank the Iron Bull at the bar. And she trusted the man who never once called her knife ears or servant or whore.

That silence lingers for longer than either of them were comfortable with. But he was a cautious man, he didn’t want to put his foot in his mouth when it was something so clearly dire as the faith of the woman who could easily have his entire position demolished if she so chose. 

“It is apparent to me now that this is something I should have brought up sooner rather than later,” he starts, words clearly chosen and thought over. Still, he doesn’t look like he believes them when he speaks. “I had hoped it would not impede my performance in the way that it apparently has…” 

She wants to interrupt, but she doesn’t. Unclear where this tangent of his is going, she allows him a chance to explain. Still, she’s never been horribly patient with people who can’t speak their minds outright. 

“Templars take lyrium,” he continues, palms flat against his desk, attention burrowing into some box she couldn’t see the contents of. “It’s what gives us our abilities. But it also controls us; ties us to the Chantry and their will. When I joined the Inquisition, I stopped taking it.” 

Isadore finds herself unsure what to say for once, mostly because it suddenly occurs to her that she's not particularly smart and had never actually asked about lyrium. Which should have been the first thing she did when the red stuff started sprouting up. 

“...What do you mean it  _ controls you _ ?” she finally adds, trying not to outright show how little she knows. 

“Templars that are cut off go mad. Some even die.” 

The bluntness of his statement drives a furrow into her brow, somehow deeper than it was before. A strange emotional cocktail swelled up in her chest; the immediate shock of it quickly boiled into a fear driven anger. 

“You’re telling me that you could die.” 

“I haven’t--” 

“Oh good! You haven’t died! I should be happy that it’s just the madness setting in, right?”

“The situation is slightly more complicated than that--” 

“When we retreated to the Chantry, I saw you get attacked. And I went to help only to find I was too late. Because you’d already ripped a Templars throat out with your teeth. And you’re going to tell me that’s not the mark of someone who’s lost their mind?” 

“Templars that go mad have been off lyrium for much longer than I’ve been--” 

“It’s not just the lyrium then. What aren’t you telling me? What am I doing here, trying to drag an answer out of you? For all I know, you’ve been a spy for Corypheus this whole time!”

“You’re picking at straws, Inquisitor. And I cannot believe that, after all this, you could even consider something so horrid.” 

“Then prove me wrong! You keep countering my points but you’ve yet to give me an actual explanation and I can’t keep dodging this. Clearly you can, but that’s not how we solve problems as adults.” 

“This has been an interesting debate, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” 

His retort is calm but sharp, and his glare doesn’t break from hers for the moments after he’s spoken.  She’s almost physically taken aback, as if she can’t believe he’d ever be so callous with her. She would have immediately spat back, but there was something so vicious in the way he looked at her that her wild accusation, which she’d never in her life actually considered, suddenly began to make much more sense. 

“Fine. Lose your damned mind. Die to make a statement. I’d rather that than see you lay a hand on any one of these soldiers that have laid down their life on your word. And believe me, if you even think about it, your throat is the one that’ll be torn out in the snow.” 

Some childish part of her wants to throw more of a tantrum, start crying and shouting, but she doesn’t. She hasn’t in years, and she wouldn’t start over the lost trust of a man. 

  
So she does what he says. She turns around and leaves. 


	3. Plumage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not Good Part 2: featuring such hits as "Dorian is in this Fic More than Cullen", "I Have No Idea What Pacing Is" and "Hoo Boy This is Not Edited".

Isadore had no right to be mad at someone for wanting to keep secrets. Her, of all people, should be the most respectful person, elf or otherwise, in Thedas when it comes to other people choosing to keep things hidden.

And yet, here she is, doing her very best not to let her head explode; five whole feet of unbridled rage.

If he was going to be a danger to the Inquisition, to herself, then shouldn’t she have the right to know? And moreover, how stupid must he think she is for him to have even tried playing that act? Pretending he didn’t even know what she was talking about?

Creators, he must think she’s just a dumb savage after all.

Defeated, she’d returned to the tower. In her anger driven brain, she’d made the decision to question Leliana about the situation instead; if she didn’t know anything about it, then Isadore would jump on the opportunity to voice her concerns.

But she’d gotten half way up the steps when the thudding in her chest made her reconsider. That wouldn’t be fair of her, would it? But really, she is concerned about his position as commander… or maybe she’s just letting her own grudge cloud the better half of her judgement.

One thing leads to another, and suddenly she has about a hundred more tangents running through her mind.

Cullen was an honest man. That’s what everyone said time and time again. So if he felt the need to hide something from them all, then it had to be something dire, right? Her feet begin to move her body again. But what if that was all a ruse? What if he’d been lying this whole time? No, that can’t be right. Varric, Leliana and Cassandra all knew him from before, surely they’d know him well enough…

And what if they did all know what was wrong? What if they did know his secret and they were also keeping it from her?

Fuck. Now her head really hurts.

“You’ve been standing at the top of the steps staring for longer than is healthy, Inquisitor,” Dorian chimes in, breaking her from whatever inner monologue she’d delved into. “Who struck a nerve with you? Your face is going to get stuck like that.”

“The bear,” she snorts, rolling her eyes.

“Ah. The bear must be very charming then. He drove you back here much faster than I would have thought.”

Right. She was just here less than an hour ago, wasn’t she? Maybe she hadn’t come back to rat Cullen out to Leliana; maybe her subconscious brought her back here to unleash a horde of gossip on Dorian, who’d probably eat it up faster than she could get it out.

“Oh, he’s charming all right. It’s a miracle he doesn’t have the entirety of Thedas swooning for him,” Isadore sighs, leaning over the rail of the tower until she can see Solas with his paintbrush, carefully detailing the frescoes he’d begun on the walls. She starts to wonder if Dorian actually knows what she’s talking about. Then she glances at him and she has that question answered for her. Dorian just knew whose business to keep his nose out of, and she was grateful for that.

“If it’s any consolation, I may have found something for you,” Dorian leans over the rail beside her, a wide, thin book in his hand.

“Already? That was fast.”

“Well, I am wildly talented at most things, so I don’t know why you’re surprised.”

“No, see, you know what I think? You’re so sweet, you stopped everything and went looking for me,” she smirks, taking the book from him carefully.

“Hardly. It’s got ‘Beastiary’ written on the spine.”

“Because it’d be such a shame to catch Dorian Pavus doing a favor for the Inquisitor.”

“Well of course. What will the people back home think of such selfless endeavors? I might as well be Ferelden.”

“I can’t believe those words even left your mouth.”

“I know. This stuffy mountain air is dreadful for my health.”

 

* * *

 

_“The mountains and I don’t get along,” she crosses her arms over her chest, pouting slightly. “Too much snow.”_

_“Perhaps you should avoid wearing a tunic with no arms then,” Cullen makes his best attempt at a tease, looking up from the war table for only a brief moment with a half cocked smile._

_“And what? Be caught wearing something ridiculous like that fur mantle of yours?”_

_“It’s a practical addition--”_

_“Practical? It looks like a bird’s plumage in Bloomingtide. I’m sure it impresses all the females, but you wouldn’t catch me dead in it.”_

_Josephine proceeds to bury her face in her clipboard, stifling a laugh as best she can. Cassandra simply rolls her eyes._

_“It does not,” Cullen attempt to return, face turning bright red._

_“Commander, it appears your face matches your plumage now,” Leliana adds, as if she and Isadore were on the same track of thought._

_“Well don’t come and complain to me about a cold neck.”_

_He was still pouting, but Isadore had the widest grin stuck on her lips._

 

* * *

 

“Don’t tell anyone I’m in here,” the elf states rather shortly, sneaking up the steps of the barn to reach the loft.

“That’s… suspicious. Are we avoiding someone or something?” Blackwall has an expression on his face that says _‘I’ve learned not to question your strange behaviors at this point’._

“Mmm… both.” Isadore had nearly turned on her heels to leave the tower, suddenly very opposed to the idea of outing Cullen to Leliana. Probably because of her own angers towards the man at this point. But in here, away from everyone and everything, she can at least crack this beastiary open and see what she can find out. “The advisors very eagerly await my advice on the Adamant situation, but they should know better than to ask a hunter’s perspective on a mission for a general.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Inquisitor.”

“I’m saying they’re better off without my confused input.”

“That’s never stopped you before.” Blackwall puts his hammer down on the table, crossing his arms to look up at the Inquisitor, who’d perched herself on a box and a bale of hay.

For a moment, she places the book down in her lap and makes eye contact with him. “Haven was… Haven was one thing. But this is all so much more than I signed up for. I just need my time to breathe.”

“Inquisitor, you’ve kept us alive so far. I think you don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“Well, it won’t mean anything if I can’t protect the people in these walls.”

“Has something happened?”

Isadore pauses. In her head, this whole situation is much more important to her than it would probably be to anyone else. In fact, if she tried to explain her concerns, she might even get a few confused looks. “What would you do if you thought someone you care about was lying to you? About something serious?”

Blackwall follows Isadore’s lead and takes a long pause of his own. For a moment, he seems very uncomfortable with the question and even breaks eye contact with her. Then, after some obvious contemplation and a long swallow, he answers her.

“If they care about you, and they’re hiding something, they’re not doing it to hurt you. Perhaps it’s nothing at all?”

“Yes, perhaps. But if it is, then the Inquisition’s reputation could be at stake. And, more importantly, the lives of the people defending it.”

“If you think something is wrong, you can confront it on your own. But if it’s something as drastic as you say, I’d… I would keep it quiet until you’ve discovered the truth. Raising suspicion over nothing could only make things worse.”

Blackwall’s advice is somewhat uncharacteristic. Not bad, just not what she’d expected him to say. Still, it was a decent enough suggestion, and she felt more relieved about not speaking to Leliana. All that meant is that she’d still have to talk to Cullen about it…

“It’s obvious that this is important to you. And I will help in anyway I can.”

“...They mention Griffons in this book,” she turns the dusty leather around to show him the page she’d flipped too. She obviously wants to change the subject. “I heard that Wardens used to ride Griffons into battle.”

“...Yes. A very long time ago,” he catches her shift in tone and she’s grateful to get away from it. “Though I doubt I would have done very well on the back of one of them. Can you imagine? He’d have kicked me to the ground before I even got on him proper.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Isadore’s face is pressed into Cullen’s collar, snow a blur as it whips past her. It had gotten much harder to keep her eyes open, and the numbness in all her limbs made sleep all the more enticing._

_He readjusts her weight as carefully as possible, and she finds her face nearly buried in his neck. The metal of his armor was expectedly cold to the touch, but his skin practically radiated heat; she could even feel it through his gloves._

_“Is this the wrong time to tell you my neck is cold?” she whispers a laugh, her voice a hoarse mess. He doesn’t answer, just squeezes her tighter._

_She could still see it. The blood dripping down his neck. It had all but dried by now, but it was still a dark stain on his skin. She was just too tired to care. She didn’t even have the energy to complain about needing someone to come rescue her._

_They actually came for her. They found her, half dead under a blanket of snow half as tall as her. And he picked her up and he held her close and carried her… she almost wanted to apologize for how much she must weigh, but he didn’t seem to be struggling, and it’d be horribly unlike her to ever mention something like that._

_His fur mantle suddenly seemed much more practical._

_Still, she wouldn’t be caught dead in it._

 

* * *

 

The sun had long since set, fires lit in the courtyards and most of the companions either in their beds or headed there (perhaps not the residents of the tavern, but most of the others). It had taken more courage than she’d like to admit, but she had eventually made her way to Cullen’s office. A few things from the book had struck her interest, and she knew she’d look crazy bringing them up to anyone anyway, but it was better to make it awkward now and deal with the fallout later.

But when she goes to open his door, she finds it locked, which it has never been before. A short walk over to the barracks and she finds the other door locked as well.

Now, if that wasn’t suspicious, she didn’t know what was.

Well, that certainly makes it harder to be a no nonsense bitch if the person you’re trying to confront literally locks you out. The notion was so aggravating she was about two seconds away from storming off to give him an earful in front of the recruits tomorrow; she’d only come here so late because she didn’t want to call him out in front of others. This is why she hates being considerate. Such an inconvenience.

However, when she turns to leave, she hears a less than faint thud bounce out of the hole in his bedroom ceiling. This wasn’t your average footstep or book dropped to the floor, it was like some massive body had stumbled and hit the hardwood. She could have chalked that up to his dumb ass tripping, but the muffled growl that followed after was well beyond any noise Cullen could have produced, let alone a human being.

Then she heard him. It was faint, but she heard him. He was hurt.

And that was excuse enough for her to climb the wall.

If anything could be said of her, it’s that she’s got some killer upper body strength. And she’s had to climb walls higher than this before for unrelated reasons, but as long as she had something to grab onto, she could make it. Honestly, the hardest part was fitting in the hole in his ceiling to drop to the floor.

_I guess it’s a good thing he didn’t listen when I told him to fix his ceiling?_

She lands on her feet, finding herself looking at nothing but a dark room; his candles were blown out and the only light filtering in was from the moon. The darkness only added to her anxiety, heart beating against her ribcage with more force than she would like.

But all the noises she’d heard before--the thud, the panic, the pain--it was silent. It was silent except for the breath slowly dragging in and out of whatever mouth was hiding in the corner of the room.

Her fingers wrap around the knife on her belt, all her limbs steady and unmoving. The fear had numbed and instinctively she’s switched into an offensive stance, much like she did when hunting game twice her size.

A step is taken to the side, eyes narrowed to focus her vision, breathing quickly reigned under her control. There’s something there. On the other side of his bed. She can see it’s outline slowly rising and falling. At first she thought it was about the size of a person, but then it quickly became clear that it was much, much larger.

She edges closer to the other side, dagger prepared to block an oncoming attack, feet positioned to dodge. But when she gets there, she’s not quite sure what she’s looking at. From where she stand, in the dark, it looks a lot like a bear somehow got in and fell on the floor. Which was? Honestly not that weird.

However, when she takes a step forward this time, the thing on the ground suddenly snaps awake, knocking the bed out of place as it clumsily jumps over and slams into the wall across the room.

Isadore immediately whips around, blade poised and ready to defend, but all she comes to see is bright, glowing eyes staring through the darkness at her, faint moonlight cast on to the muzzle of whatever animal it was.

From what she could see, it’s posture was defensive, but not outwardly aggressive; as if it was wounded and was simply hoping she’d leave. And, for a long time, she just stares at it.

But when the silence becomes overbearing, she takes a step closer to the candle beside his displaced bed. Without losing eye contact, she fumbles for the match pack in her belt, striking it and lighting the candle.

The candle was more of a distraction than anything else, because the second it’s lit, she’s used the bed as a springboard to toss her weight across the room and into this animal. Initially, her weight rolls it over and her side scrapes against the wall. But her fingers clutch tightly onto the animal’s neck fur (which she quickly realized was a mane), and she gets dragged along with it when it tugs away from her.

With great effort, she manages to get a leg over it’s chest, straddling it with knife quickly drawn to it’s throat. And she was more than prepared to dig that blade into its flesh, her scarred fingers tugging on it’s man to keep it still.

It doesn’t attack her, though. Once she’s pinned it, it doesn’t move, just stares at her with those wide, terrified eyes. And with a little better sight of it, she comes to the conclusion that she’s looking at a lion. At least the face of one. Its body was way too big and it’s arms were… more humanoid.

At first she assumed she’d just seen it wrong, but she hadn’t, and she knew animals too well to get something so blatant messed up like that. This animal wasn’t in a position to attack. It was scared of her.

Slowly she pulls the knife away from its throat and places it on the floor. Carefully, her fingers trace its muzzle--his muzzle. There’s a scar that tears into his upper lip on the right side.

“Cullen?”


	4. Thanks For Taking This So Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: i dont actually read any of my own writing before i post it. I just send it out onto the interweb and hope for the best. also, Isa keeps mentioning how she knows shit from the beastiary. I'll explain that better later *finger pistols*

_ “Cullen, you know you have nothing to prove to us, right? You never had anything to prove to us.”  _

_ “I know, ma. I promise, this isn’t about that. It’s what I want. Promise.”  _

_ He’d known for years what he wanted. Maybe he hadn’t always had a word for it, but that didn’t change the fact that he wanted to help people. And joining the Templars was the best way for him to achieve that goal. Sure, he was a little old now, but he told himself that just meant he was more determined than everyone else.  _

_ “You know we will support you no matter what life you choose. But I am your mother, you can’t blame me for worrying about you.”  _

_ And she was worried, for very obvious reasons. That’s why, even though she knew he hated getting his hair tousled by her, she did it any way. She’d raised him as her own and she’d never seen him as anything other than that. The thought of him getting hurt always made her heart feel at unease. _

_ “Ma -- I haven’t even left yet,” he pouts, flattening his palms over his bed to straighten the sheets. _

_ “I know, but you are my little knight in shining armor--”  _

_ “Ma!” _

_ “Let your mother enjoy the simple things,” she smirks, squeezing his shoulder as she walks passed. “Besides, you should be prepared for much worse than that when you tell your siblings where you’re going.” _

 

* * *

 

Isadore stumbles when she tries to step backwards, tripping over Cullen and ultimately landing on her ass. Shock didn’t even begin to describe the emotion lodging itself in the back of her throat.

Of course, in her head, she’d known since the second she’d started growing suspicious of him that he was covering something up about himself. But even when she was reading through the beastiary, she didn’t quite believe it was possible. 

Because Cullen was human. He looked human, acted human, and didn’t particularly give off the vibe that he was actually a giant half-cat monster. Then again, most people don’t.

He proceeds to roll over, back onto his feet. But when he tries to get some solid footing, one of his legs seems to give way and he hits the wood with a yelp and what she recognized as a pained expression. 

Isadore, on the other hand, manages to hop to her feet in one swift motion, moving to light the other candle beside his bed. Only when she had a better view of him did she make any attempt to help him. 

“You’re bleeding -- why are you bleeding?” She’s on her knees, lifting his arm away from his chest as he lays on his side. “What did you do?” 

He kind of just rolls his eyes and presses his muzzle against the floor, as if exasperated. Or embarrassed. 

Just above his abdomen was a thin cut, surrounded by a dark bruise that would have been much more apparent if it was masked by his mane, which extends nearly to his stomach. The same sort of bruising is around his wrists, but these marks only appear on his upper body. His lower half, which had been contorted into very distinct haunches, appears undamaged. 

“How did this happen? If something’s wrong, I need to get help--” 

But before she can even finish the sentence, his hand is around her wrist; not tightly, and he’s more than careful to keep his claws from digging into her skin. Creators, his hand (paw?) was bigger than her whole head. But when she looks him in the eye, she can tell he’s pleading with her. 

“You still need to tell me what happened,” she continues, currently oblivious to the fact that he can’t actually talk.

Instead, he picks his head up and gestures to the other side of the room, where his armor had been tossed in heaps across the floor. She stares for a long time before she notices a few odd deformities in the way the light bounces off the metal. 

“...You were stuck in there when this happened.” 

He very well could have impaled himself on his own armor. It could have snapped and pierced right through him, but instead he managed to get out with only a few bruises from where the metal was too tight around his flesh. 

“Is this… what happens now? Are you ok?” Stupid question, Isadore. Move on. “I mean… creators, you’re not stuck like this, are you?”

He shakes his head and she swallows. Ok. This is fine. Everything is fine. 

“I need you to stay here. I’ll be right back,” she states assuredly, standing up rather briskly. And when she stands, he tries to do the same so that he can stop her, but she’s put a hand on his chest to stop him. “I’m not running off to tell anyone. I have to get something. I promise, I’ll be right back.” 

And he trusts her enough to let her go. 

So, with a nod, she’s headed down his ladder, unlocking his door from the inside to sprint as nonchalantly as she can to her quarters. From there, she grabs a small bag she’d brought from home with a bowl and a potion she’s always carried with her. 

When she left her quarters, she was careful to keep up a casual walk near the scouts and soldiers that were patrolling as she headed towards the garden. She was impressively good at lying, after all. 

From the garden, she snuck to her own corner where she’d planted sprouts from the marches that she’d managed to keep alive. Leaves, berries, and small budding flowers were plucked from them and placed with care inside her pouch before she slung it back over her shoulder and began her walk back to the commander. 

When she returns to his office, the first sound she’s greeted with is a aching groan from above, which only inspires her to climb the ladder to his room all the faster. Yet when she gets there, it’s a slightly different sight than the one she left. 

Cullen’s still on the floor, but his arms are thrown onto the bed, fingers clutching the sheets for support. He wasn’t a hulking mass of fur and teeth anymore, either. The last remnants of that being were disappearing into his skin; she catches the awkward shift of his spine under his skin, shoulders cracking back into place, and his mane receding into nothing. But she didn’t see his face. 

“Let me help you,” she steps to his side, arms wrapping around his bare back to help him on the bed. She’s just going to pretend for now that he’s not completely naked. “You have a fever. Lay still.” 

He whines under his breath like a child that’d been told to do chores. Still, she manages to get him on his back while his ragged breathing begins to slow. His face, though human once again, is still twisted in pain, eyes clamped shut, lower lip shaking. 

“Chew on this,” she grabs some of the bark from her bag, opening his mouth to place it between his teeth. “It’ll taste like dirt and tavern spit but it dulls the ache.” 

From how he nearly gags, she guesses he can already taste that. 

Then, from her bag she removes a small, stone bowl, along with the berries, flowers, and leaves she’d hastily grabbed from the garden. Tossing some of them together, she grinds it into a paste, and then proceeds to, less than neatly, smear the mixture across the wound on his chest and the bruises on his wrist. 

The last thing she does is take the small rag of cloth and pour the liquid from the vial onto it in small drops before draping it across his forehead

“ _ Mala suledin nadas,” _ she whispers on an exhale, wishing she were more of a healer than just an elf who knew which berries didn’t kill you. “I can still get you real help.” 

“Please don’t…” he mutters, his hand blindly searching for hers. Spitting the chewed bark from his mouth, he continues. “This shouldn’t have happened. But they can’t find out. You shouldn’t have even found out…” 

“Yes, I should have,” she states firmly, but still allows him the comfort of holding his fingers. “I would never have made all those accusations if I’d known what was actually happening.” 

“But you don’t know what’s actually happening.” 

“I’m a dumb savage, I understand that. But I can still look through a book with pictures and sort the words out on my own.” 

“You’re not… that’s not what I mean.” 

“I know. I’m just saying that I… I probably know more than you think I do. And I know I still have questions, but they can wait.” 

Cullen is silent for a long time, but she can feel his fingers shaking in her hand. So she kneels beside his bed and gives his palm a careful squeeze. “You didn’t kill me. When you realized it was me you didn’t even question it. You just tried to help. Why? You had a knife to my throat…” 

“You weren’t trying to kill me,” she answers as if it were common knowledge, though she quickly realizes he’s still surprised by her care. “I’ve had a lot of people try and kill me. It used to make me paranoid. Now it just… now I’m better at telling when people don’t deserve to die.” 

“It’s more than that, though. I know it is. I would have killed me.” 

Isadore can’t tell if he’s practicing self deprecation or if he’s just not aware of what he’s said. Still, he has at least some semblance of a point.

“I’m… Cullen, I was never anyone important, you know that, right? I was never a trained soldier or the first to the keeper. I was a hunter. Nothing more. And when that’s all you know, you get very good at it. I’m very good at telling when an animal wants to rip my throat out.” 

“An animal. Right,” he offers a weak laugh, tired hand dragging the cloth from his head before he turns his head to look at her.

She wanted to tell him that he wasn’t. She wanted to tell him he was just as much a person as she is. Because he was. For all intents and purposes, Cullen was human. 

But she also couldn’t lie to his face. She’d read the beastiary. She knew that this was all a mask. He isn’t  _ really  _ human, and he never was.

“...Earlier, when I stopped by your office to question you… you didn’t tell me to leave because you were offended. You told me to leave because of this.” 

He exhales deeply, turning his head away. She’d never seen his hair so disheveled. Suddenly she understood why Varric calls him curly.

“It happens more often now. Lyrium used to be a crutch but... now that it’s gone…” he swallows and turns to look at her again. She’d seen that sad look in those eyes before, but never quite so personally. “But I’m not a threat to the Inquisition. You have to believe me, I wouldn’t have agreed to come if I didn’t think I could control this.” 

“I do believe you. And I’m sorry I doubted you.” 

“No, you were right to accuse me of lying--” 

“Oh, I’m not sorry for that. I was absolutely right about that,” she’s only half joking. “I’m saying that I’m sorry I accused you of being a traitor.” 

He grants her a tired roll of the eyes, and she smiles softly. In his hand he still holds the rag, so she draws it back to his forehead, encouraging him to close his eyes. He looks so painfully exhausted…

“I’ll stay here, but you need to sleep,” she says with a nod. 

“You don’t have to keep an eye on me--” 

“I just want to make sure you actually do  _ sleep _ . I have a lot of yelling to do at you tomorrow and I want you to be well rested.” 

“Isadore…” 

But she’s already started blowing out his candles, a faint blush stretching across her dark cheeks that no one could have seen, right? 

  
He hadn’t called her anything besides ‘Inquisitor’ since Haven. She wanted to punch herself for being so juvenile, but she liked the way it sounded on his tongue. 


	5. Well Enough and Thank You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont proofread anything i post here ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Isadore presses her face deeper into the cushion, bangs a mess strewn across the pillow. Meanwhile, a whine escapes the back of her throat, fingers clutching at the sheets to pull them up above her mouth, sunlight draping over the golden vallaslin that decorates her cheeks. 

_ Creators, when did morning come? _ Inhaling deeply, her nose is buried into the cloth. It’s a different smell than what she’s used to, but it’s not abrasive; it’s familiar and relaxing. Then, with eyes drawn wide, she realizes why. 

It smells like  _ him _ .

She quickly props herself up, glancing around the room to figure out where she is, because it certainly isn’t her own quarters.  _ It’s his room _ . She must’ve fallen asleep while watching him last night. But as her eyes scan the room, it’s apparent that he’s nowhere in sight.

She runs her calloused hands across the bedspread. Did he put her here? When did he leave? Where did he go? And that bastard thinks he can just pick up her unconscious body without her permission? Why, she ought to--

_ Relax _ . She inhales deeply, reminding herself that she didn’t need to immediately start barking at people for everything. But she runs her fingers over the bare flesh of her arms anyway. She didn’t like the idea of a man holding her while she was so vulnerable… but he wasn’t a man, was he?

She pulls the covers away from her body and stands up, albeit groggily. In her head, she’s quick to correct herself; as far as she was concerned, he wasn’t a man or a monster. He was Cullen. That was it -- he was the person she had every intention of chewing the fuck out the second she got him alone. And, oh boy,  _ would she give him hell _ . 

Fingers weave through her bangs, certain that no matter how well she combs her hair, it’ll still be a wild mess. Appearances were beside the point; she’s already spent far too long dealing with what she can only assume future generations will refer to as the ‘ _ Cullen scandal _ ’. She, on the other hand, will probably refer to it as  _ ‘the time she almost murdered the inquisition commander’ _ .

No, that’s not right. She won’t refer to it as anything because this is still a secret and not one of hers to share. From what Cullen told her, no one else knows. At least, not in the Inquisition. He hadn’t outright said so, but she could tell from how desperate he was to keep her from going for help; no one here knows, and he wanted to keep it that way.

“Inquisitor, if you’re looking for the commander, he and the other advisors are at the wartable.” Isadore had climbed down the ladder and was standing in front of Cullen’s desk, scanning for any sort of sign as to where he’d gone when her question is answered by a scout. 

The sun is nearly in the middle of the sky, how in Thedas did she manage to sleep in this late? 

“Good,” she lies. “I was looking to convene anyway. Has the commander been out of office all morning?” 

“I’m not sure, my lady. They’ve all been at the table for some time. I was sent to fetch you, but you weren’t in your quarters so I assumed you must have gone to find them.” 

She knows exactly why they’d gathered at the war table, and even though she knew it was vital, she dreaded the thought of it. 

“Right. I’ll meet with them immediately then.” 

Isadore nodded to the scout and then began walking, trying not to appear as begrudging as she felt. They wanted her to be a leader, exactly what she  _ didn’t  _ want to be. Leading wasn’t exactly something she excelled at, and now that the stakes were raised, suddenly the whole damned world rested on her stark lack of ability to take charge.

And dealing with her advisors problems didn’t help. 

“So we are in agreement then--Inquisitor, your timing is excellent,” Leliana greets Isadore as she enters the room and the Inquisitor has to mentally remind herself not to flinch. She’d sort of hoped she could just sneak in and enter their conversation smoothly, but she should have expected that would not be the case. Of course. How foolish of her. 

And then she makes eye contact with Cullen, who probably only allows it because it’d be strange for the others if his head just darted to the side all of a sudden. But as far as his looks go, he didn’t even appear to be suffering like he had the night prior. Of course he still looked tired, but it was the same air he always had about him; the air of a man who pushed himself way to hard. 

“I assume you’ve been talking about Adamant?” Isadore responds before too many moments have passed. It was time to get this show on the road anyway. 

“Yes. Adamant fortress has stood against the Darkspawn since the time of the second Blight.” 

“Fortunately for us, that means it was built before the age of modern siege equipment,” Cullen enters the conversation with little hesitation. She knows he’s saving face and he’s had to cover up his poor health before, but it was still quite impressive what he could work through (and with a half cocked smirk too). “A good trebuchet will do major damage to those ancient walls. And thanks to our lady ambassador…” 

“Lady Seryl of Jader was pleased to lend the Inquisition her sappers,” Josephine adds when called upon. “They’ve already delivered the trebuchets.” 

Interesting. It seems the advisors had planned much of the advance on their own, which is a real relief to the Inquisitor who couldn’t even tell you who lady Seryl of Jader is.

“That is the good news.” 

Once again, Isadore thought too soon. 

“Right. Demons and possessed wardens.” 

“Yes, that is the bad news.” 

“Our forces can breach the gates, but if the wardens already have their demons…” Cullen doesn’t seem particularly thrilled, but then again, none of them do. 

“I found records of Adamant’s construction,” Leliana interjects. She always did seem to have some kind of extra information up her sleeve. “There are choke points we can use to limit the field of battle.” 

“That’s good. We may not be able to defeat them outright, but if we cut off reinforcements, we can carve you a path to Warden Commander Clarel.” 

“Carve me a path?” Isadore stops him, a look of disbelief on her face. “I don’t like the use of the word  _ carve _ , commander. This will be a bloody mess. You can’t be telling me the only way is at the loss of so many of our forces.” 

“It’ll be hard fought, no way around it.” Cullen is looking at her but his expression is something she can’t quite place. Remorse, perhaps? “But we’ll get that gate open.” 

“It’s also possible that some wardens will be sympathetic to our cause,” Josephine seems to assess to tone of the conversation and add her own input accordingly. She was always good at putting a positive spin on things. 

“The warriors may be willing to listen to reason, though I doubt they will turn against Clarel directly. The mages, however, are slaves to Corypheus. They will fight to the death.” 

“We’ve built the siege engines and readied our forces, Inquisitor. Give the word and we march on Adamant.” 

“Very well. I’ll need to talk to the companions to pass on what we know. If this battle will be hard fought, we’ll want heavy hitters to stem the tides.” Isadore pauses. Assault options weren’t her repertoire. She knew subtlety and trickery; she was unaccustomed to facing her enemies head on.  _ At this point, they might have as much luck loading me into the trebuchet and launching me over the wall. _

The advisors nod to her collectively and the Inquisitor is emotionally prepared to run out of there. But she casually returns the nod and exits calmly instead, pretending she isn’t as stressed as she actually is. And when she does leave, she feels no relief. 

It was going to eat her up if she didn’t talk to Cullen before they marched. 

 

* * *

 

 

_ “Holy mother says we should keep saying our prayers, but my ma says they haven’t seen any of those monsters from the plains in a real long time. I think you’re making stuff up.”  _

_ Cullen was loitering outside the Chantry, waiting for his sister to return. A few of the older kids stood at the steps near enough that he could overhear their conversation and pretend he wasn’t listening.  _

_ “I heard they never found the militia man that went out the other night. I heard those animals skinned him alive and ate all the meat off his bones!”  _

_ “Ew! Don’t say that! We’re not even supposed to talk about it.”  _

_ “Are you worried the animal people are going to hear us and sneak out of the woods to gobble you up?”  _

_ “Stop it! That’s not funny.” _

_ It was an older boy mocking a girl who couldn’t have been much bigger than Cullen himself. Honnleath saw little in the way of action, so the smallest incidents were blown out of proportion. The children built fanciful stories to tell about the monsters that came from the wilds to eat people, despite not having seen any of said monsters in over ten years.  _

_ “You’re right, it’s not funny.” Mia glares at the small conglomeration of kids as she returns, only acknowledging them in passing. She was barely two years older than him, but she always seemed so much more mature. “You’re lucky the Chantry doesn’t hear you talking like that. Besides, they’re not coming back. We’re the ones that attacked them after all. So stop scaring your sister with stories, Tomas.”  _

_ The boy rolls his eyes, but doesn’t look at her otherwise. After she offers a shake of her own head, she waves Cullen over and he’s glad to begin the walk home.  _

_ “Thank you,” he mutters under his breath, directed at his sister. _

_ She doesn’t answer, but she squeezes his shoulder just long enough to say you’re welcome. _

 

* * *

 

 

“I guess part of me was just hoping you’d forgotten,” Cullen sighs, fingers splayed on his desk as he leans over it. “But you’re not the type to forget. I suppose I’m as prepared for this as I’ll ever be.” 

It was night. Isadore had spent the rest of her sunlight hours talking to the companions she’d want to accompany her at Adamant. It’d be easier for them to move through choke points in a small group, which was well enough since she trusted so few with her life. 

But now she’s back in Cullen’s office with no idea how to start the conversation. 

“I got this from the tower library,” Isadore finally starts, placing the beastiary in front of him. “There’s a few pages marked. Those are the ones I went through.” 

“A beastiary?” he seems surprised, but he picks up the book and begins flipping through the tabs anyway. “Why did you look through this?” 

The commander is half out of his armor at this point, perhaps preparing to actually get some rest for once, though she highly doubts it. His chest plate and bracers had been discarded, along with his gloves, though his belt remains loosely around his waist, sans any sword. 

“Haven,” she answers, uncharacteristically soft. “The look you had on your face reminded me of something so I got this book on a hunch.” 

Cullen pauses for a long time before looking up at her. He seems nervous to commence. “...What did it remind you of?”

She didn’t want to answer, especially since she guessed he already knows what it reminded her of. But he wasn’t someone she wanted to lie to, so if she expected any truth from him, she had to give it to him first. “It reminded me of an animal. I’d seen that look in the eyes of shape changers gone mad and wild beasts alike. I… assumed you were one or the other.” 

Isadore swears she hears him laugh under his breath, but if he did, it wasn’t a happy laugh. What she said was the truth, but it’s not what he wants to hear, and she can only imagine how uncomfortable all of this must feel. 

“But that’s what you are, right? A shape changer?” This is her attempt at lightening the mood; it’s just the two of them in here, of course, and the silence makes things that much worse. “To be honest with you, I don’t understand the problem. Is it because it’s magic?” 

Ok, that time, Isadore definitely heard him laugh. He flips through the book a little farther and then looks back up at her, the saddest smile on his face she’s ever seen.

“It’s not like that,” he answers, standing up straight to rub the back of his neck. “It’s not like… how can I put this… it’s not like I’m a mage who uses magic to change their shape. It’s much more simple than that, if you’ll believe it.” 

More simple? She’s always been aware of his wariness towards magic, so she’d just as soon assumed this was all caused by it. In the beastiary, she’d read passages of every shape changing species she could find. Some were the result of choice, some from curse. She’d concluded the former when he was able to change back on his own but… 

“That’s why you helped me last night, isn’t it?” he continues, glancing at her with a furrowed brow. “You read this book and you thought I had just changed shape on my own. You didn’t see me as any threat because you knew it was still just me.” 

“I guess part of me thought you were just… hiding some kind of magic relic. But the more you talk, the more I realize none of this was your choice, was it? So you were cursed then?” 

“Yes… just not in the way you’re thinking. This all… what you’re looking at isn’t real. Well it is but it’s not… ah, I said it was simple and here I am making it complicated. ” 

Now he’s being cryptic. She wants to get frustrated at him for it, but she knows better. He’s only being cryptic because whatever comes next, he really doesn’t want to talk about it. With a sigh, he leaves the beastiary lying open upon his desk while he walks around to the side she’s standing on.

“I was born this way. No magic involved. My, ah, family, I suppose--they were all like me.” 

“Really. A family of werelions.” Her words are a statement rather than a question, as if she’s reiterating the facts in disbelief. 

“Not my family, really. Just… where I came from. But it’s really no more complicated than that. I can change back and forth whenever I feel, no spells or relics involved. I was raised like any human and I’ve never felt any other way.” 

“Then what was last night?” 

“Last night was… an accident. The lyrium withdrawal has made some things more difficult than before. I suppose it’s easier for me to deal with them… not in this body. Danger or fear can trigger it and without lyrium it’s harder to stop it…” he trails off momentarily before dropping his hands to his side, attention bore on her. Out of fear or anger, she can’t tell. “I’m not a threat to anything, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

She crosses her arms and frowns. It said something when he had to constantly reassure her that he was not a danger to anyone. “Then why the secrecy? Who knows besides me?” 

“You can’t seriously be asking me that,” he scoffs, mimicking her by crossing his arms. At first he sounds offended, but his tone shifts to regret when he realizes she was in fact serious. “If anyone here knows, they have yet to say anything. And I’d like to keep it that way; what I am, we don’t exactly have a glistening reputation.”

“Says the lion to the savage. You’re commander and I’m Inquisitor. It’s not that wild of a notion anymore.” 

“It’s just not something I’m willing to risk. I would have been rejected from the Templars as soon as they found out, and the stakes are only that much higher now. If word of this spreads, I can guarantee we’ll have angry accusations from nobles every morning about how they’re backing an army commanded by an  _ animal _ .”

Cullen exhales softly, running a hand through his hair. So he wants to protect the Inquisition. She can see that much, but she also knows it’s more than that. He’s  _ scared _ . 

“You keep using that word. Animal. I don’t think that’s the right word. And even if it were… why is that inherently bad?” 

“You can make any word sound bad if you put enough hate behind it.” 

She had about ten different words spring to mind in the very next breath. She understood exactly what he meant, but she’s beyond jaded at this point. Words were words and she’s heard most of them. 

“Look… none of this is even relevant.  _ Because I don’t care _ , Cullen. As long as you do your job, you could lead the assault on Adamant as a domestic house cat.”

For that, he grants a laugh, which was at least some comfort to her. She wasn’t fond of these kind of heart to heart conversations. Just because she’s heard so many words does not mean she’s good with her own. 

“Well enough, Inquisitor. I shouldn’t be surprised that I can trust you with this.” 

“I’m not a snitch, if that wasn’t obvious.” 

“Of course…” He turns his attention to the door, granting it a slight nod. “Really, though. Thank you.” 

“This really isn’t something that deserves thanks, Cullen. Especially since it was my paranoia that got me delving into this in the first place.” 

“For whatever reason, I just assumed you’d… think of me differently if you knew. It changes people’s opinion. And I didn’t want you hating me. It sounds ridiculous now that I say it out loud.” 

“Yes. It does.” She smiles and returns his nod. “If we’ve come this far and it hasn’t affected your work, why should it start now? You’re doing a good job.” 

“I… thank you, Inquisitor.” 

“...Well enough, commander.”

 

* * *

 

 

_ Isadore was passed out on the floor, her body propped up on the nearest wall. It didn’t look comfortable, but he doubted she minded; she seemed the type to take what she could get.  _

_ He was half awake when he got out of bed, still sore from the night before. Whatever remedy she’d made had soothed the aches, but it’d be a little longer before he healed fully.  _

_ Why was she so quick to accept this? Why did she not run and get the guards? Or just slit his throat then and there? He didn’t understand it. Why was she so ready to help him? _

_ Either way, she was out like a light. He puts one hand behind her back and one arms behind the bend in her knees, scooping her up in his arms with little effort. For a moment he worried she’d rouse when her mouth opened slightly, but all she did was press her nose against his collarbone. _

_ Carefully, he lays her down in his bed, watching as she instinctively curls up and clutches at his pillow, still deep in sleep. He smiles. _

_ “Thank you, Isadore.”  _


	6. Screaming Internally and Externally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a flashback that got long so i gave it it's own section. Once again, unedited. Also: it's pronounced Ay-lahm, and I'm sorry i'm not funny ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

_**4th of Cloudreach, 9:11 Dragon** _

 

“Eilam! Have you checked the treeline? We should get these bodies burned well before sun up. Bad to let, well...  _ anyone  _ see these this close to town.”

“Aye, about to check them again.” 

“Good. Shouldn't be any trouble. Keep within sights, though. You can get someone to tag along for safety if you need.” 

“I'm just doing a short sweep. You keep the others to move the bodies. If I don’t come back, you can write ‘eaten by monsters’ on my grave.” 

“Tell that joke to your wife an’ see if you get a laugh.” 

Eilam shrugs, but does not give way that he’d thought on it more than that. Of course the matter was serious, but it felt wrong to let it be so overwhelmingly heavy. The nights of bloodshed would soon be behind them. When he turns to walk, he sighs in relief. 

Unequipped and horrified, a town of simple people had spent the better part of the last half year just trying to protect their homes. It started with the cattle up and dying but soon men were lost into the night and it became clear that something much more sinister was at work. 

Or, perhaps, not sinister, just appropriately terrifying to a town of people who hardly knew how to fight until a pack of animals began creeping up on their borders. 

But these weren’t just animals. Oh no, they probably could have solved that problem easy enough with their hounds and blades. These animals were monsters; hulking creatures with uncanny fangs and equally dreadful claws. That, even, the people could have dealt with. It was the fact that they could hide behind the masks of men that made them dangerous. 

Still, they were savages, and often slunk back into their own ways when left alone. At first it’d seemed hopeless, but they village, with Templar aid, chipped away at the animals nightly, ever able adult taking watch to secure their nights once again. 

Now, in the dark of the chilly night, three of the beasts lay dead on the outskirts of town. Massive things, they were, bearing comparison to lions (that is, if lions were twice their normal size and could stand upright like a man). Only one was particularly frightening; the two others must’ve been younger for their size didn’t convey as much terror. 

Eilam didn’t like to think about it--that they’d just killed children. The Maker would not have created such abominations of the human form to later call them redeemable. It was easier to label them all monsters than to think otherwise… 

It still didn’t feel right. 

Either way, he passes a brush of tall grass near the treeline, the torch of his fellow scouts still in sight. He’d never actually seen one of these things before. A lion, that is. There’d always been some mild contempt for the creatures, since they were the mark of Orlais, but he’d never imagined them as such. They’d always struck him as noble animals. 

Fingers brush the bark of a nearby tree, eyes scanning into the depths briefly just to call the coast clear so he could return to the others. 

A twig snaps behind him before he can even draw another breath. 

His back pressed to the ground, Eilam quickly finds jaws snapping at him, shaky limbs forcing him down. The maw that comes for his throat is covered in blood, but not the blood of any man or woman--the blood belongs to the beast itself, crimson liquid pouring from an arrowhead lodged beneath the monster's throat. 

Eilam struggles under its sheer size, but it must have been weak: one of its legs gave out when he shoved hard enough, and he managed to crawl out from beneath it. 

Or should he say, from beneath  _ her.  _ It was a lioness, as massive as the one they’d killed before, but almost more terrifying. Her lips pulled back into a snarl, fangs barred despite her trouble standing on four legs. 

Eilam backs up, stumbling to his feet to draw his sword. Though it was dark, the blood across her body was still much more apparent that he’d previously thought. She was absolutely soaked, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine how in Thedas she continued to stand when she should clearly be  _ dead _ . 

She proceeds to snap at him, but makes no other attempt to leap forward towards him, instead crouching nearer to a small patch of disturbed grass beside a tree. Still, her eyes glow golden and vicious in the night. 

Slowly, Eilam steps to circle her, but her position does not change, her head simply lowers as the fur on the nape of her neck stands on end. Soon it becomes apparent that he is within striking distance and, despite its numerous chances to escape, the animal does not back down. 

Despite it all, despite basically being dead and with an open enough opportunity to run, the animal does not flee. Eilam assumed it was a matter of pride. 

It was not. 

He tackled the beast to the forest floor with a shout (and accompanied roar) that surely would have alerted the others. But his head was so in that moment, he couldn’t have told you either way. The animals nails rake into his poorly armored flesh as she tries to rend him off of her, but his blade is already in her side, slowly slipping through her skin and meat until he’s hit bone and doesn’t have the strength to push further. 

But he tries anyway. Tries until she’s stopped fighting, until she’s stopped growling, and until the golden glow from her eyes has faded into nothing.

“Eilam! You alright?” a voice calls out beyond the trees. 

“Y-yes!” he calls back, still utterly shaken. “Nearly devoured, but alright! Got another one for the pile.” 

The men came for the lioness. It took three of them to carry her proper, and Eilam was still standing in the dark for a long time after they’d moved. He’d fought many things, but not a thing like that. And he knew, for sure, if she hadn’t been on the brink of death anyway, he would not have returned to his wife that morn. 

He exhales, running a hand through dirty blond hair that pressed flat to his temple from sweat and dirt. It was time to return home and end this night. 

But a soft rustle draws his sword from its sheath again. Blade pointed to the dark of the woods, his voice would have called to the men with torches if it wasn’t locked up in his throat. Carefully, he braces his nerves and steps forward. He saw no glowing eyes and heard no snarling mouth, but he had heard the rustle and he would not lower his guard. 

Another step forward… carefully still… towards the muted crushing of leaves… 

“Ah--Maker’s breath!” he nearly shouts, falling over him own feet as the cry of an animal wails out through the trees. He’d gone and stepped on it! 

But he’s quick to realize, that’s not an animal.  _ That’s a child.  _

He almost can’t believe it. Actually, no, he  _ can’t  _ believe it. He falls to his knees to brush the dirt and leaves from the infant, but he knows if his hands weren’t wrapping around the child himself, he wouldn’t have believed it at all. 

“How did--how in Thedas did you get out here?” he mutters, obviously to himself as the child could not give him a proper response. 

It’s a boy, Eilam realizes shortly, and he couldn’t have been more than a few weeks to a couple months old. The man expected him to be frozen to death in this air, but his skin is warmer to the touch than he’d imagine. Still, a crying infant left in the woods would either freeze or starve, and neither seemed particularly great. 

But why was a child out here? Did the animals steal an infant? Why then was he perfectly unharmed? And… was that lioness protecting him? Was that why she wouldn’t run?

Oh no. 

“You’re… one of them, aren’t you?” Eilam rocks the child in his arms, brushing his thin tuft of hair flat to try and comfort him. Eilam had just killed his mother. 

And it didn’t matter that he was a child. It didn’t matter that he was an innocent who couldn’t possibly have done wrong; one day, he’d turn into one of them. They’d kill him if they knew he was out here. 

“Shhh… you have to quiet down,” Eilam whispers. The baby is a baby and therefore does not understand the words being spoken to him. And, so, he continues to cry. “You’re alright. I’m sorry I stepped on you, but you’re alright.” 

He repeats this over and over, placing his pinkie finger on the infant's lips to try and use it as a pacifier. It kind of works; the baby transitions from crying to sucking his finger back to crying. Which, honestly, is pretty great considering. 

“Eilam! You alright? What are you doing in there?” comes the voice beyond the trees again. 

“Uh… yes, of course! Found a… goat that’d been attacked. It probably won’t make it.” Maker, that was a terrible lie. That crying doesn’t even sound like a goat, and he has to refrain from doing his own bad impression in the meantime. 

“Alright… well… put it out of its misery and return to post.”

Internally, Eilam is screaming with the baby. 

“Right! I’ll follow you right back!” 

Panicked, he shrugs his coat off (while trying and failing to keep a proper grip on the infant), and proceeds to do a terrible job of wrapping the child up in it. Still screaming. Both of them. 

He then immediately takes off into a sprint. There was absolutely no graceful way of doing this. At all. So he figured he might as well just run and hope for the best. If anyone asked, he was holding a kid (like a baby goat, not a child, though he worried such a wild thing would come from his mouth) that he desperately needed to rescue for some reason because he’s just that kind of guy. 

So, a man with a screaming baby he’d just found in the woods is sprinting back to the outskirts of town, also screaming (internally and a little externally, at this point), trying his best to avoid the gaze of his scouting party and every concerned citizen who poked their heads out their windows to see the return of their heroes. 

He mostly succeeds in his endeavors; he is able to sneak home and inside through his own back door while turning minimal heads. Alright, so not “sneak”, but the baby is still alive and no one’s asking questions yet so, yes, he thinks he’s doing a good job. 

“Eilam? What’s the noise? You’re going to wake--what in Thedas is that?”

Honestly, he doesn’t know what to say. ‘ _ I found a lion baby in the woods and I brought it home because I didn’t want to see him killed’ _ is probably not the best way to say hello to your spouse. 

“What happened out there? Aren’t you supposed to be scouting? Oh no--are you alright?” 

Truth be told, Eilam is still catching his breath, which doesn’t make this any easier. 

“Yes, I’m fine, I’m completely fine--” 

“Then what’s happened? Is that--is that a child? Eilam what’s going on--” 

The infant is crying louder now, probably terrified (rightfully so), and his crying only draws out the screams of another infant that apparently slumbered in the other room. 

“ _ Eilam what is happening. _ ”

She puts her foot down and takes a big stride towards him, finger deftly clutching the edge of his coat the reveal the face of a rosey cheeked newborn covered in dirt. 

“I found him. In the woods,” he quickly pants out, cutting her off before she can gasp again or start shouting at him. “They would have killed him, Anya. They would have killed him if I left him out there.” 

“Who… who does he belong to?” she questions, both of them raising their voices to be heard over the cacophony of crying. “Why was he in the woods?” 

But that question is answered for her the second she asks it. She knew about the beasts, she knew about how her husband was on watch that night. She’d be out there with a sword and shield herself if they didn’t have a two year old baby girl in the other room. 

“Eilam, no--he can’t be here--” 

“Anya we killed all of them. He would have died out there alone. He hasn’t done anything--I couldn’t have forgiven myself for killing him. He’s just a baby--” 

“He’s one of them, Eilam! If they find out what he is, they’ll just kill him later on!” 

“We can take him to the chantry. We can… wait a few days and say his parents were travelers killed by the animals. That’s not even a stretch--” 

“And then what? What happens when he gets older and… and things happen? They’ll shun him if they don’t beat him to death! That’s not fair to a child!” 

“And what? Am I supposed to just take him back to the woods? Let him starve to death? Or be eaten alive?” 

“No, that’s not what I--what I’m saying is--Eilam, just give him to me!” 

Eilam, stunned, hands the child to her. His screaming had gone from tolerable to almost painful; every neighbor was sure to worry if they didn’t settle him down. So Anya tenderly pulls him into her arms, tattered jacket and all, and begins to rock him gently. 

“He’s... hungry. And he feels a bit feverish… poor thing might be in pain…” she mutters, brushing some dirt from his cheek. 

“What does… what do they eat?” 

“Maker’s breath--he’s a  _ baby _ , Eilam, not a dragon.” 

“Right--of course. Milk then?” 

“There’s probably some left in the baby’s room from earlier. Go see if you can quiet her down while you’re in there.” 

Anya proceeds to glide slowly across the room, swaying him carefully in her arms and she tries to lull him into docility. It’s some time before her husband returns, and it appears he has had some struggles of his own. 

“Go warm a bucket of water and bring me a cloth from the cabinet. A clean cloth! Being filthy won’t help him if he’s sick.” 

And so he did. The infant child was fed and washed and though he continued to cry, it became duller and duller until a tenderly hummed tune could be heard from her lips. 

“You’re a miracle worker, you know that?” Eilam slumps into a chair across the room. The sun was rising outside and neither of them had slept a wink. But his wife now sat, rather quietly, with the baby in her arms. And though her face was tired, she smiled, and continued on as if she had all the energy she’d ever need. “So we can wait a few days to decide where he should go… I’m sure we can keep him calm until then… what are you thinking?” 

Anya had not spoken in some time, aside from the song that kindly left her mouth. He was a beautiful baby boy; he’d been before but it showed through much more with the muck and grime washed from his skin. He was… soft, and almost sweet now that he began to sleep. And though his eyes were only half open, she could attest that they’d be worth more than all the gold in this town. 

“Cullen.” 

“What?” 

“He… he looks like a Cullen. I think he should… that would be a good name.” 

“You… you think so?” 

“I mean… we can’t be calling him the woods baby, can we? He ought to have a name.” 

“That’s… Cullen. That’s a good name, I think.”

“I think so too.”


	7. Tell Me What I Know, I Dare You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "did someone ask for 14 whole pages of nothing but dialogue?" i say as i force feed 14 whole pages of poorly written and unedited dialogue down your throats.

Isadore had tucked herself away in a shaded corner of the garden, back pressed to a stony wall as she took in and exhaled breath slowly. She wasn't asleep, but she wasn't particularly aware of her surroundings either, and the gentle breeze that rustled her bangs did not bother her. 

She'd spent most of her hours in the garden since Adamant. It was the only place in Skyhold she felt any relief from the weight of the world (aside from the tavern, of course) and none of her companions dwelt here to accidentally remind her of her duties.

She was content with her plants. They needed her, and she knew she could handle them. It felt like the only thing she could handle anymore, especially since so many people were eager to reprimand her for her decision to ally with the wardens.

They could piss and cry for all she cares. That decision wasn't one that upset her. None of her choices at Adamant haunted her.

Why, then, does she never want to think of that place again?

They lost good soldiers, sure, and a good warden as well, but she's never been sentimental and still it sits wrong with her. Their mission was accomplished and she’d survived.

She knows exactly why she never wants to think of it again. She's just fooling herself pretending otherwise.

Still, she doesn’t care for the mountain air, and she knows her herbs don’t care for it either. And it doesn’t help that she’d had to pluck her plants apart a few weeks ago just to help the commander heal… it was hard enough to get them growing in the first place.

Standing up, she moves to lean against the stone wall, glancing about the garden with a half asleep haze still filtered over her vision.

It was only noon, and though matters needed her attention, she wanted nothing more than to have an excuse to go to sleep and never wake up. Arrangements had to be made to attend the Winter Palace, but if she knew nothing about leading an army, she knew less than nothing about impressing a court of nobles.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t good at tricking people, she just didn’t know how much royalty would love a dalish elf.

And then there was the matter of clan Lavellan’s call for aid. They were more than desperate to contact her, of all people, for help. She’d never given them something to be proud of, but apparently know what she stood in a position of power, they were willing to forgive her past transgressions.

They wouldn’t. They would never forgive her. But at least now she was good for something.

“Inquisitor — so this is where you’ve been hiding.”

“I don’t  _ hide _ , Dorian. Perhaps you’re simply not very good at looking for things.”

“You hurt my pride, Isadore. Truly.”

“You feign innocence so well.”

“It is one of my many talents, isn’t it?”

“What, pray tell, are you doing here then? Looking for rose petals to drop behind you as you walk?”

“Inquisitor, I would  _ never  _ be caught tossing my own rose petals.”

“Right, of course. And I’ve just been so busy I haven’t had the chance to do it for you. Without a flowery trail in your wake, how will adoring fans know you’ve walked by?”

“Your teases flatter me.”

“One of my many talents.”

There’s a short pause between them. Isadore was perched with her forearms resting over the wall, looking down as he passed the stony walk to return to the main hall. He’d have passed her completely if she hadn’t just stood up.

“I had been looking for you, though,” Dorian continues eventually, arms crossed over his chest like his best impression of a parent trying to discipline a child.

“I’ve been here.”

“Well, yes, clearly.”

“So?”

“So — you know how much I dislike lingering on feelings, Inquisitor. But Blackwall, Varric, and I are the only ones in Skyhold who went into the fade with you. Yet your report seems to differ quite significantly from ours.”

“Ah. So you think I was lying.”

“No, not quite. I think you saw something in the fade that you don’t want to talk about. And that’s perfectly fine. But I do consider you a friend. It doesn’t have to be on the record if you want to tell someone.”

“I didn’t see anything in the fade.” Her statement feels absolute, no expression on her face aside from one of dismissal. She was uncomfortable with this heart to heart, but she didn’t show it on her face, and most of the joking tone in her voice had dissipated into the tone she used for monotonous talks with diplomats.

“That’s what you said in your report.”

“Is this really what you were looking for me for? To see if I wanted a therapy session?”

Dorian frowns. How unfortunate it was that Isadore’s immediate reaction to any kind of consolation was to close her heart off like this. “If you’re worried about how I spend my time, I can assure you I did not go out of my way to hunt you down. Perhaps we’ve all been a little… on edge as of late. I was here having a chat with our dear commander, and since this is the first I’ve seen of you standing still in the past week, I figured now was as good a time as any to try and get your attention.”

“Well, we’re talking.” Truly, Isadore doesn’t intend to be so callous. Dorian is one of her only friends here, and as far as she knew, his intentions were pure enough. But it wasn’t something she wanted to dwell on, and it certainly didn’t help she’d just moments ago had the same haunting thought run through her head.

“Truce, Inquisitor. Perhaps it was too forward of me to approach you like this. I did have other things to speak to you about. Corypheus things. Forget I even brought this up and feel free to come talk to me when you do have the time.” Dorian turns to walk away, but before doing so, he stops and smiles to himself. “Either in the tower or the tavern. Your choice, Inquisitor.”

She sighs to herself. Why is it that every moment she tries to forget something, people decide to bring it right back up again? Her behavior since Adamant had been admittedly… sporadic, but she didn’t think it warranted this much concern from people. What did they expect? They’d all nearly died, why should she be expected to simply pour her soul out to everyone? Especially since she hadn’t even lied to them about anything.

Isadore turns her head to scan the rest of the courtyard. Had Dorian mentioned talking to Cullen? Is that what he was doing out here in the garden? Neither of them seemed the type to wind up here, but Cullen even less so than Dorian. He was so bound to his office, she was half under the impression he couldn’t leave it for fear of death.

But Dorian hadn’t been lying; apparently he and the Commander had both snuck passed her while she was half conscious, for she finds herself catching the briefest moment of eye contact with Cullen before it quickly darts back to whatever was in front of him.

Man was truly the most unsubtle of beings.

“You and Dorian shared words,” she states with little enthusiasm, arms crossed much like the mage’s had been before he left.

“Well, yes. We did.” Cullen was sitting in front of a chess board (what she assumes is such, at least. They had so many strange games here she’d never heard of). He’d been slowly rearranging the pieces back to their original spaces on the board when she’d approached him, but he appeared to have more trouble looking up at her than she did at him. It was painfully obvious he’d been stalling in hopes that she’d leave before he had to walk passed her.

“About what?”

“About? Nothing in particular… we shared some banter after he suggested I’d make a very sore loser. He never got to find out either way, seeing as he lost.”

Isadore continues to stare at the pieces on the board, lost somewhere in her own thought. Why was she so paranoid that they’d been talking about her?

“Inquisitor, do you feel well?” he breaks the momentary silence, to look up at her.

“I’m fine,” she nearly snaps. Of course! Someone else wants to ask her how she feels after Adamant.

“No, no, I mean… you somehow look paler than usual. Are you running a fever?”

“Oh… I — just a little headache. The air out here makes me feel better. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Cullen frowns at her. She wasn’t lying to him, really. She’s been sick before and this was nothing. A little ache was barely a bump in her day. Still, she can feel his displeased look trained on her.

“Perhaps you should… sit down then. I just reset the board, if you’ll humor me with a game.”

Isadore raises a brow at him. No part of her wanted to be in a joking mood, and yet… “Commander, you’re not shirking responsibilities, are you?”

“What? No — of course not. I mean — I distinctly remember  _ someone  _ telling me I need to take breaks more often.”

“I’m not going to reprimand you, don’t worry,” she shakes her head, still not managing a smile. It’s only when she sits down across from him that she affords the smallest of smirks. “Just know that it’s cheating to smell out your opponents weaknesses.”

“I — excuse me?”

“Animals are much better at assessing the strength of enemies as well as their own,” she exhales, one hand propping up her head while the other casually reaches for a pawn. “They can smell when prey is sick, when prey is weak. The hunters in my clan very rarely let ourselves get sick for that reason. I guess the mountain air is taking it’s toll on my insides if you were able to smell me that easily.”

“Was I really that obvious?”

“I don’t think anyone has ever called me pale in my life.”

“I… sorry. It wasn’t intentional, I promise.”

“It’s well enough, commander. I probably wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t already fully aware of the situation. And it’s your turn.”

“You’re... very astute.”

“I have sense, commander. I can see things in front of me. That’s something entirely different from intelligence.”

Cullen had a pawn between his fingers, carefully moving it forward as if the first move in this game meant anything. “Well I… didn’t mean any offense by it.”

“No, you apologize too much. I’m sure with all the wounded soldiers and scouts that get brought in, the smells you have to put up with are absolutely awful.” Especially all those sick men and women that’d come back from excursions. Apparently some kind of illness was passing through the barracks — creators she better not have caught any bug.

“Trust me, none are as awful as a soldier that’s forgotten to bathe.”

“What a  _ dreadful  _ affliction that must be.”

“It’s really not… quite that terrible. It’s normal for me now. I’d feel a little lost to suddenly find everything so...  _ diluted _ .”

Isadore moves a pawn. It isn’t strange for her how casual this exchange of words is, but it must be for him. It’s not like he’s really talked with anyone about this in a long time. “Well, you’ve never known anything different, so of course it’d feel that way.”

“That’s not… entirely true.” He moves another pawn, resting his hands in his lap after. “Things were a little different when I was young. Very young, though. I can hardly remember it now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… growing up with my siblings, we were all basically the same and I never really noticed otherwise.”

“Siblings? Is this that family of lions you mentioned before?” She moves a piece, unenthused.

Cullen’s head immediately darts to the side, as if he expected someone to overhear what she’s said and become suspicious. Isadore simply rolls her eyes. She knew how far her words could travel and how close someone would have to be to intercept those words. She was a thief, after all.

“No, no… my family was all… they were all very normal, I assure you.” He rubs his hands together, a little nervously. “I guess that’s why I didn’t outright notice anything different.”

“So your siblings were human then. Interesting. Either way, how have I never heard of them?”

“Maker, they haven’t seen me in years. What with Templar training and now the Inquisition… I can only hope they’re alright.”

“How many of them are there?”

Cullen pauses, not because it was a particularly strenuous question, but because they’d been moving pieces across the board all throughout the conversation and he must’ve assumed she has some sort of strategy (she doesn’t--she barely knows how each piece moves). “There’s four of us. I have two sisters and a brother.”

“You did strike me as the older brother type. All doting and matronly as you are.”

“I’m not — you don’t really — I’m not even the oldest one!”

“Creators, you’ll flush at just about anything, won’t you?”

“You enjoy my torment, don’t you.”

“I wouldn’t say I  _ enjoy  _ it. But it certainly is entertaining.”

He rolls his eyes as he takes his turn, making a valiant (if not fruitless) attempt to cover his blush. “My sister used to say about the same thing. She always had this smug grin on her face every time she beat me. I remember practicing every day with my brother until I was finally good enough to beat her.”

“How ambitious. You don’t seem the type to hunt for power.”

“I’m really not… it was sibling rivalry at most. Younger brothers are always eager to outshine their elder sisters. I thought that was common amongst all families, really.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Right… to be honest, I know nothing about your family aside from a clan name. It’s probably pathetic how little I know of Dalish life.”

“If we’re being  _ honest  _ then, I can’t really tell you it’s all that complicated. At least it wasn’t for us. We traveled so frequently throughout the marches I can’t rightly say any place felt like home. You know what role you’ll play in clan life almost as soon as you can speak. I was a tested hunter not long after I picked up a bow for the first time.”

“That seems almost sad — sorry, that was too blunt of me. I hadn’t meant it like that —”

“No, it’s fine. I know what you meant. But really, it only sounds sad because humans know differently. That was all we knew, so it didn’t feel sad at all. Actually, I can remember feeling bad for human children whenever we traded with merchants. It felt like you had no freedom, no sense of accomplishment. I remember once hearing a rumor that human children were kept locked up by their parents until they were old enough. More like things than people.”

“That is… bleak, when you put it out like that.”

“Well… we all face a culture shock sooner or later. It’s the only way we learn.”

“What about you, then? Dalish parents must be worried sick for their children.”

Isadore freezes up. Not noticeably, but the chess piece in her hand remains hovering above the board for some time with no apparent movement on her end. Now what sort of answer did he expect for that.

“No. Not really.”

“I — here I am talking with my foot in my mouth again. I'm sorry I didn't mean to—”

“—You say that a lot. You can lighten up a little, Cullen. Really.”

“I... I’m afraid those words might not be anywhere in my vocabulary, Inquisitor.”

“See, look at you. Joking at your own expense. It’s a step.”

“...You and Mia would get along spectacularly. She’s had the same running gag on me since I was a child. She says I was born uptight.”

“You? Uptight? Unheard of.”

“Yes… I’m sure the next letter she sends me will be riddled with teases… reminds me that I should actually be better about mailing them… I haven’t since Haven—”

“Wait, you haven’t mailed them since Haven?” Suddenly, Isadore’s brow is narrowed on him, her joking tone gone. “They don’t even know if you’re alive?”

“I’m sure they’ve heard word of my survival — they know about my position as commander.”

“That’s not that same thing, Cullen. Family is the most important thing in this life. You really should keep better contact with them.”

“I know… it feels like a waste to say I’ve been busy but it’s more like… I’ve been distracted.”

She stares at him for a long moment to let him know it was no excuse.

“Are you… absolutely certain you feel well?” he quickly changes the subject, seeing very clearly that she wasn’t kidding with him this time.

“I  _ thought  _ I said no smelling weaknesses.”

“I promise I didn’t,” he puts his hands up in defense. “You just look tired.”

“Ha, I assure you I’m almost always tired.”

“And here you are telling me I need a break. Have you recently taken one for yourself?”

“I don’t need one. The activity keeps me sane.”

“I was just suggesting that—”

“You know you’re in no position to hassle me when you yourself have no concept of relaxation,” she snaps, significantly more aggressive than was probably intended.

Cullen frowns. Again. He knew she was right, at least about his work ethic, but the way in which she bickered was uncharacteristically… like a pendulum. Her shifts in mood were not usually so volatile, and she knew he was concerned about her for that reason.

Still, the idea that he cared so much about her mood almost made her more angry.

“Perhaps we should return to our duties then,” he offers, as if that’ll settle her nerves. He tries to sound optimistic, but she’s still glaring. “It looks like this round is yours anyway.”

With little more warning, Isadore stands up, brow furrowed, attention carving into his face. She wanted to storm off, to shout in his face, but she had something much more bitter to get off her chest first. “You really shouldn’t let people win to make them feel better about themselves, commander. You just end up making them feel more pathetic.”

“I’m... not sure what you mean.”

“I’ve never played chess before, Cullen.”  

 

* * *

 

 

_ Isadore didn’t care for the taste of ales, but if there was one thing humans were good for, it was getting drunk, and when they were drunk, they tended to care less that she was an elf. Sometimes they cared more, but they were also too disoriented to do anything about it.  _

_ She passes her fingers over the glass with her eyes half open. She should have left hours ago, but her head was still too heavy to head home. _

_ “That’s her — that’s the fucking whore that robbed me!” _

_ And now there’s one of those drunks pointing at her. Of course. _

_ “You don’t even know who you fucked with,” he slurs out. She continues to pretend he’s not there, but when he gives her shoulder a shove, she’s forced to acknowledge. _

_ “You’re right. I don’t even know you. Would you kindly take a step away from me.” _

_ “You really want to walk out of here like nothing?” Well, he certainly fit the part of stumbling drunk; his shirt was barely on his body with half the buttons undone, and her wasn’t even wearing shoes. Not that she cared, but she was certain that was a common human practice. _

_ “I do. Because nothing has happened. Return to your own drinks, shem.” _

_ “Little fucking rabbit comes in here like she owns the place —” The man proceeds to grab her wrist and force her off her stool with a sharp tug. She was easily a foot shorter than him, and so he felt the need to shake her arm as he held it in front of him. “Where’s the rest of my money?” _

_ “You still think I have any idea what you’re talking about?” She remains calm, eyes narrowed into golden slits as she nearly devours him with eye contact alone. “Let me go and walk away before you regret it.” _

_ “Regret it? All you knife ears think you’re so damned important. I’m here to tell you that you’re not.So why don’t you fucking get on your knees like you’re so good at and—” _

_ Isadore punches him in the stomach, sharply, with her fist coming from below to knock his innards into his creators damned rib cage. His grip on her wrist slips some, and she takes the opportunity to grab the arm that’d held her in both her hands and, with a strained grunt. She flips him over, twisting the bone as he smacks face first into the hardwood. _

_ “Like we’re so good at? Tell me again what we’re good at, shem.” She put her foot on the back of his neck, pressing his cheek against the floor as she wrings his arm tighter. _

_ There’s a distinct snap and an audible groan across the tavern. The patrons only stop for a moment before simply returning to their drinks. _

_ “Come at me again and I’ll break the other one,” she releases him, snagging his belt from his waist before tossing it on the counter. “Drinks for the house are on him.” _

 

* * *

 

“Corypheus was a magister. But if we can prove he was some grovelling mess, well, that’d certainly take the luster right off his title.” 

“You think you can prove that? That’s he’s got some real name out there and that he’s just… another pissant in the wind?”

Isadore had chosen the tavern to speak to Dorian. After her pathetically vile behavior before, she decided she didn’t particularly want to be sober any more. And, besides, at least this way she can pretend her shitty personality is just the alcohol's fault.

“That’s the idea.” Dorian pauses only to sip at whatever fancy wine is in his hand. “Of course we hardly have any research texts on the Imperium here—”

“ — As you have so dutifully pointed out to me, many times—”

“ — But this is an excellent excuse to examine the ancient texts in the Magisterium’s Library.”

The drunker they were, the less Dorian seemed to care about the dank and grimy tavern. That, or he was so invested in his theory, that he didn’t care about the environment. Isadore was just happy to have a pint of something in her hand.

“That is, if the Grand Archivist will ever stop being a slimy pile of nug shit.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” Dorian nods, sitting rather poised in his chair. She, on the other hand, was half slumped back with her head propped up on one arm.

“Aye. Would you rather me steal it or beat it out of them?”

“Perhaps you could start with a bribe, Inquisitor. Gifts and favors are essentially part of Tevinter decorum.”

“Yes… but then we wouldn’t get to anger a Magister.”

“I’m so terribly glad I’m on your side. Anyone who’s willing to single handedly fight Tevinter is not someone I’m keen to slight.”

“Awww, have I not offended your sense of national pride?”

“Oh,  _ irreparably _ .”

She liked this. She liked joking with Dorian and keeping their feelings to themselves. She’s been tense this entire time for fear that he’d try and relax her with booze, then attempt to get her to open up. She’d had enough feelings for today.

“I can’t wait to fall asleep. I’ve been a right ass all day and it’s left me with a killer headache.”

“You  _ were  _ a tad sharp earlier,” he states in a rather matter-of-fact tone. Dorian was not one to step carefully around her title; he honestly didn’t care if he was frank with her.

And neither did she. She appreciated it from a friend. Really, she could tell when she was stepping out of line, but on neutral ground, it was decent of him to remind her.

“Things have just been… hectic. And not in the ways I can handle.”

“In your position, I can imagine. The commander must’ve said something that made you sore for us to be meeting here. Unless someone else crossed your path today.”

“I don’t think he meant to. We had a nice talk until he started pitying me. I’m tired of the pity.”

“A little pity every now and then can be flattering, I assure you.”

“Not from them. And not when it so blatantly calls my competence into question.”

“It may come as a shock to you, but people are capable of feeling sorry for you.”

“Ah, who asked them to? I didn’t. If he had asked me if I was sick one more time I might have punched him.”

“How playful. Can I assume you’ve caught yourself a strapping young templar?”

Isadore nearly spits, catching herself leaning forward as Dorian raises an eyebrow, that shit eating grin cocked on his face.

“Why would you assume something like that?”

“Because one just walked into the tavern like someone’s lost dog and since I’ve never seen him in here before, I assumed you had the leash.”

Isadore immediately turns around, somewhat off balance, trying not to let her eyes widen as much as they wanted to. Dorian was joking, right? That’s what he did, of course. He liked to tease her.  _ Ha ha _ , it was all very funny. But there was no way the commander was actually here, and there was also no way he’d be here looking for  _ her _ .

“Inquisitor.”

Fuck! Everything! Run! Immediately!

“Cullen. What are you doing here?” The elf places her drink on the nearest table, innards screaming that maybe she shouldn’t have drunk so much. Of course she had some kind of record attesting to the insane amount of alcohol she could consume, but she was already feeling ill and she’s just now realizing she hasn’t really eaten anything today.

“I was… I wanted to tell you something—”

“Go ahead and speak your mind. You’ve got two sets of ears eagerly waiting.” Dorian lifts his eyebrow again, propping his head up on the arm of the chair with the same shitty smirk on his face.

“It — it was more of a private matter,” Cullen stutters, pretending Dorian wasn’t obviously trying to get under his skin.

“Oh, private? Very mysterious. Makes for excellent gossip, commander.”

“Really I was only meaning to speak to Isadore.”

The inquisitor freezes up again. There it was, her name, coming out of his mouth again. He so rarely broke formality that it always caught her off guard when he did. And with something so unimportant as her name? Especially after she’d flipped moods so insistently earlier? Unintentionally, her cheeks flush.

Fuck it. That one was the alcohol. Shut up.

“I… alright.” She stands up.  _ Play it cool. Play it like you didn’t storm off on him earlier. Play it like you’re not paranoid he’s going to start yelling at you the second you’re alone _ .

“Rude. You know how I much I love hearing mysterious things,” Dorian feigns hurt as Isadore shoots him terrified glances. He simply shakes his head.

The Inquisitor and the commander do not speak to each other right away, which only makes the air that much more tense. What did he want? What was so private that he couldn’t speak of it in front of Dorian?

He was going to chew her out, wasn’t her. Or maybe he found out about what had happened in the marches — no, no, that was impossible. Her paranoia was completely unfounded. And, yet, as they approach his office in the dusk of the evening, she feels like her heart is going to get caught between two ribs.

“We may have a problem,” he finally admits, locking shutting his door behind him after making certain no scouts remained.

“We  _ may  _ have a problem? What kind of problem?”  _ Good job, Isa. Really convincing. You’re doing good — keep it up and he’ll never know you feel like vomiting! _

“Yes… and I don’t know anyone else I can really bring this to. It’s a problem for the whole Inquisition, but I can’t take it to the advisers as it is.”

So… this had nothing to do with her, then? Or did it and she was just misreading his words?

“Why me, then? Why can’t you talk to the others?”

“Because it’s about my…  _ situation _ .”

Oh. So this did have nothing to do with her. “What about it?”

“The man we saw at Haven leading the Red Templars. His name is Samson.”

“Well I knew that much. Is there something else happening with the templars?”

“No. This is all about Samson. Inquisitor he… he  _ knows  _ about me.”

Cullen’s hands are splayed on his desk, head arched down so that he’s staring intently at something on his desk. His words hurt. Not her, but him. As if making the sounds physically burned the inside of his throat.

“How? Does he have spies? How did he find out?”

“No, no, it’s not like that. I doubt we have to worry too much about infiltrators. But I knew Samson  _ before _ . We were… roommates for a time when I was transferred to Kirkwall. I wasn’t in the best state, to say the least and he sort of… found me out — but I helped him so he kept his mouth shut. Not that anyone would have believed him anyway. Except now he’s in a position of power and that’s  _ not  _ good.”

“So? Are you afraid he’s going to start shouting it at people and hoping it sticks? He’s an evil general, I doubt the common people will take it as anything more than slander.”

“I don’t think you understand how deeply a seed can be planted. He doesn’t even have to tell any of our supporters — he could go and tell the Venatori or other Corypheus sympathizers and they can start their own chain of communication.”

“...Cullen you need to come clean.”

“You want me to tell the truth? To everyone? To our sick and injured soldiers, to the nobles that sustain us — you want me to tell them all that they’re backing — “

“ — An army led by an animal? Yes, you’ve already gone off on this tangent. I’m just saying… the best way to combat this is to take the power away from it. At the very least, tell Leliana and Josephine. They can help curb the noise. And they’re your  _ friends _ , commander. They don’t care who you are, they care what you do.”

Cullen rubs the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb, a tired and exasperated exhale escaping from between his lips. It’s not what he wanted to hear, but she doesn’t know what he expected. She was blunt, even without the alcohol, and she would have said the exact same thing completely sober.

“And, perhaps, this is all blown out of proportion. Perhaps you worry for nothing.”

“I only wish it was that way.”

With another muted sigh, he hands her a piece of paper he’d been staring at so intently this whole time. She is, admittedly, not a particularly great reader when it comes to the human language, and it certainly didn’t help that her vision was a little hazy, but she could read enough to tell what it was.

“It’s a message a scout just brought to me. Intercepted from a Templar in the Emerald Graves. I doubt he knew the weight of it, but I do.”

Isadore’s eyes scan over the same sentence repeatedly until she’s certain she hadn’t read it wrong.

_ Plans to follow with directives in Emprise du Lion. General Samson wants to begin dismantling faith in the Inquisitions army. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> none of this makes sense rn but hopefully it does later when i explain some of the references better ????


	8. CSI Las Thedas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter took forever bc it's a transition chapter and im shit at transition chapters but great at puns. also blackwall is here bc he's isa's dad now apparently

Isadore doubts she’s ever suffered a hangover this severe in her life. It would almost be impressive if she had actually had a substantial amount to drink, but she hadn’t. Creators, she hadn’t even  _ really  _ gotten drunk last night.

And yet here she is with one killer headache and a stomach so upset she verged on vomit at any given time.

But she’d never outright let anyone feel any kind of pity for her, so she kept about her business and prayed that she didn’t throw up in the main hall.

Mostly, she knows this isn’t a hangover; she’d been feeling progressively more ill since she’d left for Emprise Du Lion, and now that they’d returned, she didn’t feel any better. She’d had a brief moment of almost relief while a foot deep in snow where she thought the ache was dissipating, but it came back almost instantly upon her arrival at Skyhold.

And it was all for this stupid mission of Cullen’s.

He claimed, rather adamantly, that finding a way to incapacitate Samson would help cripple Corypheus’s inner circle. And he’s right — finding the general’s weakness would play in their favor. But Isadore also knows that his insistence on taking care of the matter so quickly was rooted in his own fear of being exposed.

She had to admit, it was all very… unnerving. Some of the letters that had been found in the quarry as well as messages exchanged between the red templars felt painfully cryptic. Samson obviously had some kind of plan, but there was no way it all placed Cullen at the center, and Isadore almost thought him egocentric for assuming he did play some huge role in this endeavor.

No, right now, Isadore was focused on breaking Samson’s armor and finding a way to Halamshiral in one piece. More the former than the latter, at least. She’d leave the diplomacy up to Josephine; punching things was more up Isadore’s alley anyway.

And, oh boy, would she give Samson a damn good punch when she caught him.

“They seem to think it’s some kind of sickness getting passed around the barracks,” she starts, back pressed to a bale of hay while seated on the floor. “Them all in close quarters and what not. They thought our water supply might have been tainted or something but this damned mountain has plenty of fresh streams so I can’t imagine it’d be hard to resupply. Whatever kind of bug it is, I hope they figure it out fast.”

“And what about you? Emprise du Lion was the first time I’ve seen you breathe in the better part of a fortnight.”

“I’m a lot sturdier than that, I assure you. Whatever it is will pass.”

She’d hidden herself away in the barn with Blackwall. Ever since her garden hiding spot had been outed, she found herself alternating locations around Skyhold just to avoid conversations with people.

But Blackwall wasn’t really people, he was a  _ sympathizer _ . She would have snuck up to Dorian’s chair in the tower if she’d had any energy for quips. Really, she probably shouldn’t be hanging out with anyone if this is contagious. Oh well. Too late at this point.

“I hope so. Half the Inquisition is sick at this point.”

“Makes me wonder if it’s some kind of magic sickness Corypheus got us all infected with. What kind of power would that even take?”

“He managed to convince every Grey Warden they were dying. I wouldn’t put it out of his book.”

“Well, I’m not that smart for suggesting it. Leliana already has scouts examining field camps looking for some kind of origin.”

“It’s just weirdly… not contagious.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean… it’s not just people in close proximity getting sick. Unless there’s some missing link between everyone.”  

“Perhaps it’s me. I’ve gone and infected the entire Inquisition. That story will spread like wildfire amongst the nobles, won’t it?”

Blackwall raises an eyebrow. He’s made himself busy carving something out of wood, which she discovered to be oddly relaxing. When she needs someone to talk sense to her, she goes to Dorian; when she needs someone to tell her she’s not crazy, she goes to Blackwall.

“You won’t genuinely blame yourself for this, will you? I can never tell.”

“Creators, no. But I would kind of like to see how someone  _ does  _ blame this on me. The stories can get pretty wild.”

“Perhaps Varric can theorize some tales for you, seeing as no one here would ever spread such callous lies.”

“You seem to have a lot more faith in people than I do, my friend.”

Blackwall shakes his head, but otherwise grants no more dispute to her comment.

The elf sighs, leaning back against the hay once more. Her whole body ached now, and she worried the lightest breeze would knock her over. She’s never in her life been this sick before.

“Inquisitor, your presence has been requested in the barracks immediately.”

She’d hoped to maybe take a nap there, get some rest while Blackwall whittled away on his toy. But the second she dares close her eyes, a scout is in the barn with sweat pouring down his face.

“Excuse me if I’m brisk, but what’s the urgency?” She raises one eye, obviously aggravated.

“The commander will explain upon your arrival. The situation is dire, I can assure you.”

Isadore pauses, brow narrowing on the scout for a long time without granting him an answer. A dire situation in the barracks? Few hypotheses came to mind, but if it involved consequences of life and death, it couldn’t be good.

“I’ll head right there. Tell the commander I’m on my way.”

“My lady I — “

“I’ll be there in a moment.”

It’s obvious the scout is anxious about returning alone, but between the commander and the Inquisitor, he was much more scared of the Inquisitor. And it had nothing to do with their ranks either. Isadore was just kind of terrifying.

“Blackwall, will you escort me?” she turns to him and asks upon the scouts exit.

“Escort you? What if this is private inner circle business?”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re in the inner circle because you’re walking with me.”

“Are you quite certain?”

“I have two reasons for inviting you. One: I’m awful at making concise judgements, and two: if I pass out at any point I’d rather fall on you than on the floor.”

There was a third reason she wasn’t quite aware of: she was scared of what the commander had to say.

 

* * *

 

  
_ The wounds were still fresh. Physical. Mental. Both. It didn’t matter. _

_ A change of scenery did not create a change of heart. _

_ He couldn’t stop thinking about it. The mages. The tower. All that blood. _

_ Why did he survive? Why did he survive when everyone else died? Why did he have to watch all his friends be brutally slaughtered? _

_ He knows why. At least, he knows why  _ **_he survived_ ** _. _

_ But it still wasn’t fair! It wasn’t fair because he knows why he survived but he doesn’t know why they all had to suffer. Why did he get to live when they all died? Why did he have to watch? None of them deserved to die — why did they have to die? Why did he have to watch? Why did any of that happen? Why did they have to die? Why did he have to watch? They didn’t deserve to die why did they die all that blood all those lives why did they die they didn’t deserve it they didn’t deserve it he doesn’t deserve this — _

_ Does he deserve this? _

_ His hands are bleeding. _

_ Again. _

_ He hasn’t been through one night without an attack. His hands are bleeding. He wishes he could sleep. His palms are shaking. He doesn’t want to ever forget what they meant to him, but he doesn’t know if he can live with that image either. He clasps his hands together and holds them to his chest. _

_ He is not like them. He will never be like them. They’re monsters. He’s not a monster. He’s human. They’re not human. They can’t be human. He has to be better than them. He can’t be like them. _

_ All people have monsters in them, but that doesn’t make them a monster. That’s what his mother told him. He’s got a monster in him, but that’s not who he is. _

_ If that’s not who he is, why does every day feel like a fight to keep this thing down? Why does he feel like this face is a mask? Why does his skin crawl in the middle of the night? Why do his teeth sharpen when he’s angered? Why do his nails dig into his own skin when he’s scared? _

_ Why did he get to live when the others died? _

_ His heart stops beating. _

_ No, it doesn’t. It just feels like it does. _

_ His eyes are bright in the darkness, bright like two full moons on a starless night. _

_ And they’re staring directly at someone who’d finally woken up and turned to look at him. _

_ Suddenly, one more person knew. _

 

* * *

 

 

“They got into some kind of fight. After that they were bedridden. And then...  _ this _ .” Cullen met them at the barracks. His expression was as somber and the scene before them: five soldiers, dead on their cots, faces plastered with blood. 

“ _ Creators _ , how did this happen?” Isadore was mortified. Not because so many dead lay before her, but because she didn’t know what had done it, and if she was here, then they didn’t know either.

“Few other soldiers report hearing some kind of brief struggle. When they finally investigated, this is what they found. These were some of the soldiers who’d gotten sick.” Cullen is flaring his nostrils and Isadore knows exactly why: it smells like shit in here. The rot couldn’t have settled in so quickly, yet this whole corridor smelled of dead carcass long left in the sun. If it smelled this bad to her, it must be a mess on his nose.

“This looks like their fight may have continued,” Blackwall adds, brow furrowed sharply. “There’s scratches and bruises on their throats and faces.”

“But this much blood?” Isadore isn’t squeamish, but she limits her presence next to the corpses to just moments, just because she fears vomiting on one of them (not because she was disgusted, but because her stomach had decided it needed to act up again). “This one is bleeding from his nose but doesn’t appear to have any facial wounds that would have caused it.”

“And they’re all in their cots.” Blackwall and Isadore seem to have come to the same conclusion.

“Perhaps it was a result of this illness going around?”

“That doesn’t explain the aggression and all this blood.” Cullen’s voice is stern if not a little condescending. He seemed very quick to dismiss the entire idea of this illness.

“It smells a lot like rot in here. Perhaps this sickness is bred on the inside? It could be some kind of skin disease… peeling the flesh back…”

“Not exactly a cheery thought.” Blackwall probably intended to whisper that to himself, but Isadore still caught it.

“Could this have anything to do with Samson’s threat? He was pretty blatant in his desire to dismantle the Inquisition army. Could this be some kind of red lyrium side effect?”

Isadore massages her temple. Cullen was borderline manic at this point: he had no control over what was happening to the soldiers, and he probably assumed their ailment was his own fault. Because,  _ of course _ , everything had to be about him.

“It could. It could also be a completely different Corypheus supporter, or nothing at all. It’s violent, but this could be a lot of sicknesses.”

“No, it’s not.” Cullen speaks with complete confidence, because he’s somehow one hundred percent positive this is no common ailment. He’s apparently more paranoid now than he’s ever been.

“And how do you know that?”

“I just do.”

Isadore frowns. Right. How does she keep forgetting he’s a fucking cat? At this point he could tell her he’s also a mind reader and she’d blow it off more or less.

“Whatever it is, I say the best we can do is keep it contained in the barracks, lest it spread,” Blackwall adds some common sense to the debate.

“That didn’t seem to contain it before. We’re losing good soldiers here.”

“I’m aware,” Isadore snaps. Her stomach is doing cartwheels in that moment, and her head feels like it’d been hit upside with a rock. Her balance felt weak at best, and still she tries to keep an undisturbed expression. “But there’s nothing else we can do. We’ll have soldiers in the field stay there for now.”

“There has to be some other explanation — “

“I’m not a healer, Cullen. I don’t know what you want me to do.”

“We need to figure out whatever it is Samson is doing.”

“Samson did not infect our soldiers with red lyrium, let alone anything else.”

“You don’t know that. It could have happened in Sahrnia. Those letters couldn’t have been all you found.”

“They were, and Sahrnia  _ couldn’t  _ have been the origin of this outbreak.”

“Commander, I was also in the quarry, I can confirm we found no other evidence of foul play. Ah, aside from the enslavement. And murder.”  _ Thanks, Blackwall. _

“Then perhaps we can return to the Emerald Graves.”

“We? It’s me and my men on the front lines. There are more pressing matters at hand than tracking down Samson when he may not even be involved in this matter.”

“And what if he is? What if he is and the reason our healers can’t do anything is because he’s the only one that knows how to undo this?”

“Samson doesn’t seem the type to have a built in fail safe. We have to rely on other research before following and empty lead.”

“And what if by the time you find a viable lead, half the Inquisition is dead? This is the most solid evidence we have and you’re refusing to acknowledge it!”

“Commander, _ I advise you to take a step back _ .”

Blackwall is in front of Isadore. Cullen is leaning in to his argument with a vicious scowl on his face. The elf in the room is simply staring.

There was that look again. The look in his eyes of someone who could kill both of them in the next breath if he so chose. Isadore is shaking. Is she scared? No, that’s not it. What is it? Why is she still staring at him?

“Arguing over theories won’t help save lives,” Blackwall continues. Like Isadore, he refuses to break eye contact with Cullen. Isa can only wonder if the warden sees the same look in those eyes she does.

Cullen pauses for a long time before reeling himself in. But the look on his face remains carved into his features for many more moments before his lips part and his expression crumbles.

“We have more than enough resources to investigate new leads,” he starts, but his voice is wavering. Why did he sound like he was about to cry when seconds ago she worried for the safety of her throat?

She glances at the soldiers dead in their cots.  _ Why were their throats clawed open? _

“The healers should be given escorts to accompany them while they study natural remedies… “ Isadore starts, staring at the ground now instead of either of the men. “I can offer a few leads for Dalish cures… this sickness shares some traits with others I recognize…”

Why did Blackwall feel the need to protect her? Did Cullen really, in that moment, look so angry that he’d actually come at her? And even now, she could still hear the commander’s breathing… jagged… not controlled… tired…

“We’ll start there… there has to be some kind of cure…”

The inquisitor completely crumbles. Not figuratively; she literally collapses onto the floor, vision nothing but a black sheet over her eyes. Blackwall and Cullen both fade into darkness in an instant, and her body becomes a limp, unconscious rock on the ground.

The last time she saw that look on him, he’d killed someone.  


	9. The Bad Kind of Different

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wanna see how fast i can escalate a situation

_ “Here, show me your hands.”  _

_ “It’s not that bad. They’re not that bad.” _

_ “They’re burnt, mir falon. Let me wash them.” _

_ Isa’s hands are gently laid in her lap, but she exposes them to him, palms upward to reveal peeling blisters and red splotches. “They will heal.” _

_ “Yes, but you do not want scars, do you?” He washes the dirt from her fingers with a wet cloth; she does her best not to wince. _

_ “Please do not bandage them.” _

_ “I will bandage them. They need to be bandaged.” _

_ “No — I can hide them if they’re not bandaged. I don’t want anyone to ask.” _

_ “I will bandage them and you will wear gloves.” _

_ “Idi, it’s really not even that serious.” _

_ The boy looks up at her and frowns, dark skin surrounding bright eyes that fill with worry. He doesn’t need to say anything to voice his concerns to her; she can hear the words in her head. “She did not mean to burn you, but she did not care that she had. And if she will allow you to be so careless with your health, I will just have to be extra attentive when it comes to taking care of you.” _

_ “...Idi, my dear,” she sighs, exasperated, and allows him to tend to her wounds. _

_ When he finishes wrapping her hands, he smiles to her and replies: “Isa, I adore.” _

 

* * *

 

“You really had us frightened there, Inquisitior.” 

Isadore is only half cognitive, but she’s aware enough to grant a roll of the eyes and a sigh. “How long?”

“Only the day.”

“I still can’t believe I passed out at all.”

“Well… we’re just glad you’ve come to.”

Josephine was at the foot of her bed, very carefully trying not to reveal the fact that she’s two steps away from an anxiety attack at any given moment.

The Inquisitor had fallen unconscious in the barracks some time ago, and though she had yet to recover even a fraction, she did feel much more comfortable all tucked into bed with a friendly face ready to do probably anything if Isadore asked politely enough.

“So what happened?”

“I can’t say much. You fainted beside ser Blackwall and the commander and were promptly brought here along with a healer. You’d gone into quite the fever.”

“Did the healer say why?”

Josephine frowns her soft sort of frown, gently shaking her head. “Unfortunately, the cause of this outbreak is still a mystery. After all those soldiers began to pass… your safety became a high priority.”

“Wait… were there more? Deaths.”

“...Yes, unfortunately. We’ve lost at least ten more since you fainted.”

Isadore nearly gasps, and if she had the ability to do so, she would have shot up out of the bed. “Ten? That’s double!”

“I’m afraid so… but please, you shouldn’t worry yourself by stressing. You need your rest.”

“My life is no more important than the lives of our soldiers.”

“I… yes of course, Inquisitor. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get some sleep.”

As Josie continues, a scout emerges from the staircase with a tray. Some time ago, they’d gotten particularly insistent on serving the inquisitor meals, despite her insistence otherwise (she’d eat scraps off the floor if she felt like it, but apparently that wasn’t becoming of a Herald of Andraste).

“But please, eat. I won’t trouble you further. We’ll have scouts check up regularly should you need anything.”

“Josie… I can probably take care of myself. I feel better.”

“And you will take care of yourself as soon as you’re _ all better _ , understand?”

“...Yes, mother.”

 

* * *

 

 

Isadore had moved to the window by the time her next visitor arrived. She couldn’t sit in that bed any longer, and her limbs felt good enough to get stretched out a bit. So, as the sun set outside, she found herself looking out at the stars slowly emerging from the light of day. 

“Commander. I… didn’t expect you here,” she starts, only granting him a short look.

She’d heard him come up the steps, and even though she hadn’t known it was him, she was still oddly hesitant to turn around and find out who it was. And when she did look, she didn’t feel any better.

“After what happened yesterday I thought I ought to… pay you a visit,” he answers almost sadly. He was as out of armor as she’d ever seen him, only wearing a simple shirt and pants. Still, he appeared oddly formal even though the string that held his collar together wasn’t perfectly taut and let the fabric dip below his neckline. It was… a strange look on him. Not bad, just unusual.

“Ah.”

“I just… wanted to apologize for my behavior the other day,” he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck as he was so known to do. “It was callous of me to address you like I did. I don’t know what came about me. It was unprofessional.”

Isadore doesn’t respond. Unprofessional is not the word she would have used. He was almost scary; not in his words, but his face, the air about him. In a hand to hand fight, she has plenty of faith she could kick his ass without breaking a sweat. But that other half of his…

“... And I just wanted to make sure you were alright,” he continues, moving passed her momentary silence.

“Well, I’m not great. But I’m better,” she answers, rather plainly, eyes turned out to the night sky. “Still have a killer headache but… I can’t stay in bed all day. It’d drive me mad with how much is going on…”

“I guess you were told the news then.”

“About the soldiers? Yes. I can’t believe this is happening.”

“I… I don’t know if it’s any merit, but I keep smelling the same scent of rot around everyone sick… it’s started to follow me around, I think.”

“Follow you? What do you mean?”

“I smell it in places where no one is sick. I can’t tell if the scent is just that strong or if my senses are acting up.”

“What places?”

“My office for one. Sometimes the main hall. I could be imagining it all. It’s given me quite the headache as well.”

There’s a long silence. Isadore was not particularly concerned with the words that left his mouth, but she had something on her mind and she knew even her blunt tongue couldn’t say it.

She wanted to ask him if he’d killed the soldiers. Their throats were clawed and their faces dripped with blood. And she felt bad that her first thought was to assume that he’d done it. But when you see signs like that… a hunter's first guess is that it was done by an animal.

But why would he have killed soldiers who were already sick? And how could he possibly have gotten away without anyone noticing? There was something happening here, and she couldn’t piece it together…

“I’ve smelled it too. Not everywhere, but I get hints of it in places I don’t expect. It almost smells familiar, but there’s already so much death I can’t distinguish it anymore… it smells like… I don’t know… “

“It almost smells sweet. Like a flower on a corpse.”

Isadore laughs out of nowhere, and Cullen drops his hands to his sides nervously. “How poetic, commander. Who knew you were a romantic at heart.”

“No, no, it’s not — “ Cullen stutters out. “ — It’s just — the heightened sense of smell, I can distinguish these things a lot clearer — I can probably smell things you don’t notice — “

“ — It was a joke, Cullen. A tease. Goodness, if only that nose of yours could  _ smell  _ different tones in a conversation.”

Isadore turns away from the window to glance at him; he blinks a few times, as if in shock, but quickly returns one hand to the back of his neck. A nervous habit, how cute.

“That’d be… uh… more of a thing for hearing,” he answers, dropping his hand to the side with a blush across his cheeks. “I can actually… hear the difference.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re just not very good at the interpretation part then, are you? What’s the point of such good hearing and such good sense of smell if it doesn’t help you catch a joke?”

“I mean — it’s good for other things — I’m just… I’m just not accustomed to — “

“That was also a joke, Cullen.”

He opens his mouth to speak again, but quickly shuts it upon the realization that he’s just going to embarrass himself worse.

“How about this then,” she starts crossing her arms as she leans against the door frame. “What do I smell like? Besides sick.”

Cullen’s brow narrows, an odd expression on his face as if he’s unsure what she wants to hear. In honesty, she just wants the truth; it’d be interesting to know what an animal smells when it comes across her.

“Like… healing. Like grass and that strange bark you gave me. You smell like a field after it’s rained and… whatever kind of flowers float in ponds.”

Isadore finds herself looking passed him for a while after he’s spoken. That’s not how anyone has ever described her; he half expected him to jokingly say she smelled like cheap ale and a log left burning too long.

Flowers and plants are weak and delicate and needy and… beautiful and lovely and admired. That’s not who she is.

“That was… a strange thing I said,” he sighs, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “I’m sorry. That was odd..”

“Is it true, though?”

“Is it true?” He’s looking at her like he’s surprised she’d question it. “Well… yes. I’m not much of a liar, Isadore.”

He said her name. Why does she smile whenever he says her name? Such a simple name chosen for her, decorated by someone long gone… her chest swelled every time someone she cared about spoke it. It almost felt like the hole in her chest was filled again, as if the way he spoke made her forget all the other things she’s been called.

“That’s… ah… that’s a good use for your nose,” she laughs, brushing her bangs behind her ear as she tries to turn her attention anywhere else but at him.  _ You’re supposed to be a stoic badass, Isa! Get your shit together! You are not interested in this asshole and his dough eyes just because he said one nice thing to you! _

“Well I… am glad you think so…”

But just then, a scout  _ has  _ to disrupt them with his presence, bringing in another tray with what must have been dinner on it. With a nervous nod, he shuffles over and places the tray on her desk before scrambling out again. He definitely thought he’d just interrupted something completely different.

Isadore’s cheeks flush. Why’d she have to imagine it!

“Well I… don’t want to disturb your meal,” Cullen rubs his arm, an awkward little smile on his face.

“I… don’t mind the company. I’ve just seen scouts today —” she’s cut off by her own cough, a surprisingly violent one, that has her mouth pressed into her arm a moment later. She’d found herself coughing like this at random intervals in the day, but she never quite got used to it.

“Inquisitor, are you…” But slowly, he trails off until he’s silent.

When she shakes her head and comes back from her cough, her brow is furrowed on the man in the room who’s just gone eerily quiet. “Cullen, are you alright?”

The commander is staring at something. Or rather, he’s staring at nothing. But the staring isn’t what concerned her, it was the fact that there was blood on his face.

“I just… do you smell that?”

Isadore smells nothing, but there’s still blood dripping down from his nose and he hardly seems to notice. “Are you… what do you smell?”

“I smell it. Here. It hurts my head.”

“Hey, you need to snap out of it, alright?” she replies with more concern in her voice, stepping forward as he remains perfectly still.

Cullen’s eyes go wide, his lips parted just slightly from each other as he stares forward at what looked like nothing to her.

“Cullen, what’s wrong?” Isadore doesn’t know what to do; doesn’t know what she should do. His nosebleed came on so suddenly, and after such a cryptic lack of words, she could only assume something was in his head that could not be explained.

The commander does not answer her.

She should have known. The second he started staring at nothing, the second the blood hit his lip, the second his pupils started dilating and the second this skin under his eyes started to darken; she should have known something very, very,  _ very  _ bad was about to happen.

In the next moment, Cullen seems to snap out of his stupor only to crumple in on himself, collapsing to his hands and knees with a grunt and a sharp intake of breath. Instinctually, Isadore’s body fights the urge to take a step back. Because she knows what’s happening, even if the proper words aren’t there, she knows what she’s watching.

The commander’s hands are shaking as he digs his nails into the floor, deep and labored breaths scraping against the sides of his throat. His fingers weakly tug at his collar as he awkwardly tries to reposition himself.

“Ok — ok — hey, you can’t do this, ok? Please don’t do this. I need you to not do this.” The elf is ‘ _ stoically frantic _ ’, her naturally cold demeanor flattens her tone, but the panic is quickly rising in her lungs. “How do you stop this? What can I do?”

She’s on her knees at his side. A lot of muscle in her body says, _ hey, maybe back away from this situation?  _ But she doesn’t. She has a hand on his back and a hand wiping the blood from his face.

“I can’t move — “ he chokes out, obviously trying and failing to get up. “I can’t move — I can’t stop it —”

He cuts himself off with a shout, lurching forward to press his forehead against the ground. Isadore’s hand flies away from his form when she feels a shift under her fingers. And when her wide eyes look to see what she’d touched, her lips fall apart from each other.

It was his spine. She can see the ridges shifting under the fabric of his shirt as he arches his back.

Cullen’s fingers weave into his hair as he clutches the sides of his head, sweat slowly forming on his temples. Was is supposed to hurt him like this? Was it supposed to make him choke and gag and muffle shouts? Was fighting it really making him suffer like this?

“Ok — hey — look at me, ok — “ Her hands are on top of his as she tries to still his movement.

He’s crying. She tilts his head up to face her and she can see the tears welling up around the corners of his eyes. But they’re not his eyes. Well.. they are, but they’re different. They’re bigger and brighter and much too dark around the edges.

“It doesn’t matter. Please breathe. Please keep breathing. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” Isadore doesn’t know what else to do. She knows pain, but that’s different. It’s one thing to encourage someone to pull through it, it’s another thing entirely to beg them to stay human or at least hold on to themself.

“It’s different —” He’s clamped his eyes shut as she uses her thumbs to wipe the water from his face. “ — something’s wrong. _ I don’t know what’s happening _ .”  

He doesn’t know what’s happening. Implying that this is not what usually happens. Implying that something is wrong and he doesn’t know what.

“That… this sickness. Didn’t it cause some weird changes in the soldiers? Cullen… are you sick?” The words form before she herself has even thought about them. But when she does, they make sense. His aggression the other day, his sudden lack of control now… was Cullen the start of the infection?

“Maker…” he pants, shaking his head slowly. “I can’t… I can’t be — “

A loud  _ crack  _ cuts him off. Pushing her away as he collapses onto his side, clutching at his abdomen. Half his face is pressed against the floor and a groan pushes through his throat — his lower lip begins to bleed as his teeth uncomfortably elongate in his mouth.

“Whatever happens, you need to stay with me, ok? Just like the night I came to your room — “

“ —  _ You need to get away from me _ .” His words come out as a snarl more than anything, but she knows he hadn’t meant for them too. Because she can see he’s pleading with her.

She tries to crawl forward and grab his shoulder for reassurance, but the second she gets close, his hand shoots out to grab her wrist and snap it away, flipping her over onto her back with his other hand around her throat.

There’s a growl. At least, what sounded like a growl. And it came from between grit teeth, his bright eyes bearing down on her as she unflinchingly stares back.

“You don’t scare me,” she almost spits. She’d have flipped him over and snapped his arm by now if she wasn’t worried his nails would tear her throat out if she tried. “I won’t let you scare me into running away.”

His lips are curled back, fangs too close to her face for comfort. But for a long while, he’s just there snarling at her and not actually doing anything. She’d called his bluff and now he didn’t know what to do.

After another moment, he falls away. His grip on her had hardly been anything at all — she knew he wouldn’t actually hurt her. But now he’s just… sitting there, staring at her, his entire body shaking.

“Please,” he pleads with her again as she crawls back into her own sitting position. “I can’t do this —”

Another loud snap and he’s on hands and knees again, except this time, his fingers dig at his shirt collar more insistently.

The changes had been mostly in his face until now. That much she could comprehend. But now that it was his whole body… it was a completely different story.

His shoulders crack, widening as the blades snap back, the muscles in his arms stretching under his skin. See can see his shirt tighten around his torso, spine pressing against the fabric as he struggles for breath. His chest is deeper but also more narrow, constricting his lungs and choking him slowly.

What very well could have been a roar tears through his throat as he leans back, claws tearing at the already strained cloth that stuck to his body. She can see him better now, and she doesn’t know what to do but let her eyes get wider and wider.

His stomach flattens, shoulders dropping as his neck and face elongate, nose and mouth pushing out into a small muzzle. As his body expands, the rest of the fabric covering him begins to shred and fall away. His legs distort in the most ungainly way possible, but the cries of pain that brought weren’t what Isadore had focused on.

No, tufts of pale blonde fur grew in patches across his body as his always slicked back hair lengthened and extended down his back, chest, and shoulders until it was a shaggy mane rather than a carefully styles look.

It was only as he settled into this body that she realized how  _ massive  _ he was. If he stood up, he’d likely reach eight or nine feet tall, and she could only imagine how much he weighed.

And as the last shreds of cloth are shaken from his body, the Inquisitor has to resist every urge in her body to run to her belt and grab her knife.

“Cullen? Hey, I need you to look at me,” she almost whispers, slowly lifting herself to her feet with a cautious step towards the balcony and away from him. “You’re ok… just… be still…”

He’s standing on four legs and he’s still as tall as her, a thick coat of fur catching on the light from the window as he stretches and shakes his body, deep, gravelly breaths slowly settling into a soft rumble in his throat.

She takes a risk, holding on to her faith in him as she forces herself forward. At first, he shies away, shrinking back like he’d done the first time she saw him like this. But he eventually allows her to get close enough for her fingers to weave into his mane, gently holding the side of his face.

She wanted to ask him what had happened. She wanted to know what had triggered this spontaneous transformation, but the moment she opens her mouth to question, she remembers he can’t answer, and she simply sighs instead.

And, as if on cue, Cullen’s head snaps to attention, the almost soft expression on his face sharpening into something mean. She could tell right away that he heard something… or smelled something, more likely. It was likely that the same smell is what cause his other half to come out in the first place.

“Look, you have to forget about it and settle down, ok?” She’s more insistent now, trying to get his attention back on her with little success. “Whatever it is, you have to ignore it for now.”

But he doesn’t. The low rumble in his throat begins to roll and thunder into a full growl, one that’s fierce enough for her to know to pull her hand away and step back again. The fur on the back of his neck is bristling, and he flexes the muscles in his elongated arms as his haunches stiffen.

“Please, Cullen, I know what you’re about to do and you can’t do it. I know you’re stronger than that. Please, you have to listen to me.”

He doesn’t. One strong push and he’s jumped passed her towards to balcony. In the next moment she’s rolled over to her bow and pulled an arrow taut without stopping to breathe. But her arrow sails into the empty night.

He’d escaped. She’d let him escape. She’d let a giant half lion monster escape onto the roofs of Skyhold at the start of the evening and she could only guess what would happen next.

Someone was going to get hurt.

They’d kill him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway for anyone new here who hasn't seen my drawings of Cullen in his werelion form, here u go: http://ghost-phage.tumblr.com/image/142876896761


	10. A Damned Mess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok im going to apologize for this one now lmao sorry if y'all hate me after this bye

The sight of the Inquisitor rushing through the main hall with a bow and quiver and what everyone would assume were the clothes she slept in is actually probably not the strangest thing the denizens of Skyhold have ever seen. But if she's running, then maybe they should be a little concerned at least.

She had no idea how this could have happened. How did they go from a nice, casual chat to her sprinting with a weapon and full integrity to shoot him on sight.

“Varric! I need you in the courtyard with Bianca  _ now _ !” she shouts as she passes the dining tables. “Don’t ask me why, you’ll figure it out when you get there!”

Honestly, tact would be damned at this point. She’d thought for a minute about approaching this with stealth, maybe try and find him before he raised too much commotion, but then she said to herself: ‘ _ Hey, a nine foot tall half lion monster just fell into the courtyard like a fucking demon from the sky, maybe caution  _ **_isn’t_ ** _ the best approach _ .’

Besides, she could hear the shouting already; this cat was so far out of the bag that the bag might as well not exist anymore.

She’s on the steps with her bow drawn in the next breath; her vision is still hazy and her body still aches softly, but it mattered little in this situation. At this point, it didn’t even matter if someone got hurt; someone could get killed.

Her arrow soars across the yard and bounces off the stone of the smithy, catching the attention of the beast that just landed near the training dummies. She could only hope that he came to his senses, saw the people fleeing and soldiers brandishing their arms, and ran. Sure a wild cat hunt would ensue, but at least he’d escape and no one would get hurt. So could at least buy him some time and maybe… get some of her trusted companions to help search for him later. In the fucking mountains. That she hates.

His eyes follow the arrow back to her and she can’t quite see, but she’s assuming that’s a snarl on his face. Quickly descending the stairs, she readies another arrow and fires it behind his feet in hopes it’ll push him towards the gate.

It only kind of works. He does indeed jump forward, except it’s on top of an oncoming soldier. The soldier hardly braced himself, but Cullen was only on him for a second, pushing the man to the ground on his back before he jumps away again.

Everything was kind of flying very quickly towards a really big catastrophe.

Fuck that pun. Just fuck it. Fuck everything.

Three more soldiers have barreled down from the battlements by now, forming a short line to come at the lion head on. Swiftly, Cullen is able to avoid an oncoming swing before using one massive paw to push the nearest man into the person right beside him.

Ok, so far: no one’s dead. Minor scraps and a few scares, but nothing even that bad. Sure, more scouts and soldiers are bound to convene here and sure there are people running away screaming, but hey, it could absolutely be worse.

“Makers balls, how’d that get in here?” Varric is on the steps behind Isadore, staring out at what basically everyone is staring at: the big ass cat knocking soldiers around.

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out,” she lies seamlessly. Why? Why was she still hiding this? If she told the truth, they’d stop attacking him. They could subdue him with a coordinated effort and get him locked up.

Maybe it was just habit? To lie instead of simply being honest. But now more than ever, she understood Cullen’s fear. First: how long would it take for people to even believe that that thing is Cullen? Second: there’s no way this would stay contained; the nobles would hear by the next morning that the Inquisition’s commander had just turned on his own people. And Third: if Cullen seriously hurt or killed anyone, they’d have to put him down. And that’s much easier to do when the men and women you lead don’t know it’s you.

A soldier comes in at an awkward angle and gets a messy slice in on the beast’s back leg. After a yelp, Cullen turns sharply and swats behind him, knocking both the man and his weapon to the ground. So far, all his moves have been defensive.

But then something happens. A shift in the air, maybe, she doesn’t know, but Cullen’s head snaps to attention a split second later and he’s running. Towards her.

The shift is so sudden she almost doesn’t believe it’s actually happening; part of her assumed it was a sickness induced hallucination. But she wasn’t mistaken, he was indeed bounding right at her. Bow raised a second later, her shaky hands tug the arrow back, but she can’t steady her aim and her weapon fires at the wrong angle, completely missing the animal right in front of her.

Except he doesn’t come at her. He jumps over her.

Landing between Varric and her, he stands staring over the edge of the steps leading to the main hall, as if he was looking for something.

_ (If you’re looking for the gate, Cullen, it’s right fucking there!) _

Instead of escaping like she was praying for at this point, however, the muscles in his shoulders tighten and he leans forward to tear out a roar the could have shook all the Frostback mountain. It hurts her ears — that’s how loud it is. And it rings out across the courtyard above all the shouting and all the terrified people, echoing long after he’s closed his mouth again.

In the next moment, his back paws are pushed against the side of the wall that supports the steps, launching him down a sizable drop to the lower half of the courtyard. Nearly in slow motion, a bolt from Bianca sails past his back, just barely missing him as he falls.

“The cat surely doesn’t have his tongue,” is Varric’s commentary, which leads to Isadore screaming loudly on the inside.

“Stay up here, try and corral it towards the gate,” she returns instead of screaming incoherently as she runs to the steps to follow suit.

“Inquisitor, wait —” but she doesn’t want to hear the second half of what Varric has to say.

Keep everyone away from him. Get him to the gate. Let him escape. Explain the situation later. Punch him in the face when he gets back to normal.

She’s rounding the corner at the bottom of the steps when she realizes that he had in fact been looking at something up there. And apparently, he found it.

By the medical tents where Cullen had landed was a scout that had run from the upper level. And the lion had him on the ground.

Isadore raises her bow again, this time with certainty. Cullen wasn’t hopping off like he had with the soldiers. He wasn’t knocking him around or swatting him to the side: he had his teeth bared inches from the man’s face.

Slow motion happens again. Isadore doesn’t breath. She pulls the arrow back and lets go, lets it sail directly at the beast. It’s not aimed to scare or spook, it’s aimed to hurt.

Cullen’s teeth are in the scout’s throat. Isadore’s mouth is open to shout. The arrow is in Cullen’s ribcage.

She scrambles to collect herself and run to the aid of the scout as Cullen falls over momentarily. Wrapping her arms under the man’s she starts dragging him backwards as the lion pulls itself together, grabbing the arrow lodged in his side with one monstrous hand and ripping it out with an angered yelp.

Fuck.

That arrow should have buried deeper, but his hide is thicker than she thought; it’d hardly slowed him down at all, and now he’s charging at her again. There’s no way she can pull this scout to safety as fast as he can run, so she lowers him and steps in front at nearly the last second, firing another arrow directly at Cullen.

The arrow lodges in his chest, but doesn’t stop him, just disrupts his jump. Clumsily, he barrels into her, knocking her to the ground and raking his claws across her stomach as he tries to collect himself.

The pain is unnoticed. Consciously, she recognizes that she’s bleeding and that it hurts, but she doesn’t stop moving. She rolls over to pick herself up again only to find that things absolutely can always get worse.

Cullen had returned to the scout she’d tried to save. She’s hardly gotten out a shout in protest before his nails have torn out the remainder of the scouts throat.

He was dead. There was absolutely no way he wasn’t dead. Cullen killed him.

Isadore’s footing gives momentarily and she falls to her knee, fingers clutching her stomach. It wasn’t life threatening, but it was enough to leave a mark, and damn it was bleeding a lot.

Cullen’s muzzle is caked in blood when he turns around to look at her. It drips down the front of him and catches in his mane, paws soaked in the same red liquid. And for what felt like a long while, he just stared at her.

It was over. Did he know it was over? They had to kill him. There was nothing she could do for him. She couldn’t cover his escape, she couldn’t try and corral him to the gate; he had killed someone.

A bolt flies into his back from atop the steps but the white noise in Isadore’s head was too loud for her to hear the pained bark that came from him.

_ Just die _ , she thinks.  _ Just die and let this all be over with. _

He doesn’t.

After a little stumble, he hops forward and manages to avoid getting shot twice by Bianca. Isadore doesn’t have enough time to ready another arrow before he’s run passed her.

And, no, he doesn’t run for the gate. He runs towards the other end of the courtyard where a lot of people had fled moments prior. This situation could only get worse.

Tired, bleeding, and pissed, Isadore pulls herself back to her feet to go after him. She couldn’t run anymore, at least, not at full speed, and part of her began to wonder if his claws had gone deeper than she thought; she couldn’t tell if her head was heavy from blood loss or illness.

Another scout is tossed just a few feet in front of her. Dead. Same cause of death.

He was killing people now. It wasn’t just defense anymore, people were dying. How had it come to this? She readies an arrow as more soldiers try and surround him. How had this situation escalated so quickly?

They were talking. They were having a nice chat. He was making that stupid face and she was accidentally getting flustered. And then this.

She fires another arrow, but this one misses it’s target — she was doing her best to avoid hitting any bystanders and that made hitting him all the more tricky. In such close quarters, a bow was hardly perfect, despite her ace aim.

Cullen grabs another scout out of the circle that surrounds him, standing up to throw them as hard as he can at another scout nearer to the barn. The two bodies slam into each other with a resounding clash of metal, crumpling on top of each other as the lion barrels through the rest of the circle to finish the job.

That was four. Four people killed. At least, four that she’d seen.

This had to end.

Blackwall’s sword barely misses Cullen’s side as he dodges to the side. The warden had been guarding people in the barn, and could no longer avoid the strife.

Lunging forward once more, the beast falls back, eyes in a deadlock with Blackwall’s. The swordsman knew better than to charge in head on, so he braced his shield and waited for the other to charge him instead in hopes for a parry.

And Cullen does charge. Just not at him.

Instead, he runs in the exact opposite direction, back towards the tents and where Isadore steadied her bow once more. But something happens before she can pull off another shot.

Bull comes running in, slamming Cullen into the nearest wall.

Despite Bull’s size, the beast still beats him in height and weight. However, Bull is nothing if not a fighter — Cullen is able to push his back off the wall, but the two of them are locked in a wrestle on the ground. 

With a grunt audible to Isadore some off feet away, Bull is able to get Cullen on his back again. It’s difficult to see, but it looks like the qunari is trying to to get a hand on the animal’s throat through all that fur while also trying to tug his wrist away.

Isadore fires another arrow, this one landing in Cullen’s shoulder. He lets out another yelp, but Bull is able to hold him still long enough for her to get another shot in.

The next arrow hits his rib cage again, and through the pain he kicks hard enough to get Bull off of him. While Bull rolls back onto his side, Blackwall returns with his sword, swinging valiantly and leaving a deep wound in Cullen’s chest.

He’s weaker and definitely tired, but he’s still fighting. Still. After all this. He’s still fighting.

_ Just die. Please, just die. _

He throws all his weight at Blackwall, knocking the warrior to the ground. Bull comes back from behind, tackling him hard enough to gore him in the back with one of his horns. Cullen proceeds to grab said horn and toss Bull back a few feet.

This needs to end.

_ Just die. Please, just die. _

Isadore pulls her bowstring taut. She fires an arrow. It flies. It pierces Cullen’s throat. He falls to the ground.

Isa pulls another arrow from her quiver, but does not shoot it. She walks, almost patiently, to his side, arrow shaft in hand, blood still dripping down the front of her tunic.

She falls to her knees and plunges the arrowhead into the side of his throat. He gasps, but can’t get up. She stabs him again. He gasps again. His mane is so damned thick she can’t get one clean kill.

He doesn’t deserve a clean kill.

She stabs him a third time, his blood caking the sides of her hands as she gouges his throat as best she can. She could see him slipping, but he still had breath and was therefore still alive. She raises her hand to stab him again.

“Inquisitor, enough!”

There’s a hand on her wrist and a voice new to the fight.

“We need to find out how this animal got here, and we can’t do that if it’s dead.”

Isadore stares at the body in front of her for a long time. He killed people. He hurt her and her friends. Less than an hour ago, they’d been talking. Had he been flirting with her? Or was she flirting with him? She just tore his throat open. She’d smiled when he said her name like a fucking child and now she was entirely prepared to end his life.

“Bull. Blackwall. Help the soldiers carry this down to the dungeon. Chain him up. If he bleeds to death, so be it.” 

The Inquisitor begins to walk away, a hush having fallen over the entirety of Skyhold. Leliana, who’d intervened, is the only one to follow her. They walk in silence until they’ve reached the main hall. 

“Come with me to Josephine’s desk. We have a private affair to discuss.”

The inquisitor does not contend. She simply follows the spymaster suit until they’re standing in front of the fireplace and the ambassador has rushed to their sides.

“Inquisitor, you’re bleeding!” Josephine announces, the only one in the room with any concern in her voice.

“I am,” Isadore responds, a statement rather than a question. She’s aware of the blood, but it hardly concerned her anymore. She’d taken the cloth tied around her waist and made that into a bandage on the way here. It’d need more attention later, but still, she simply didn’t care.

“Alright, I’m here.” It’s Cassandra at the door. When she enters, she shuts it firmly behind her and joins the women by the fire. “Did you say anything?”

“No,” Leliana answers. “I was waiting for you.”

“Whatever private affair you need to discuss, get on with it.” Isadore had little more patience. She was ready to shut herself in her room and forget. Forget everything that’d just happened — forget that she’d ever felt any sympathy for that bastard.

Cassandra frowns. Well, frowns deeper than usual. Isadore was hardly looking at her, but she didn’t need to be to feel that expression bore down on her. “We know. About Cullen.”

The elf is silent. Huh. So they did know. When she speaks again, it’s a great effort to do so without a sharp tone in your voice. “That’s why you stopped me from killing him. What are you going to do? Try and pretend nothing happened.”

“Inquisitor, there may be more to this situation than any of us know.” Leliana is trying to reason with her, but Isadore is still not in the right headspace for any kind of sympathy.

“More to the situation? Then why don’t you use your spies to figure that out. I mean, you must have used them to find out what he is in the first place.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Then what did happen?”

“He told us, Isadore.” A pause. Leliana and Cassandra remain steadfast, but Josephine is softer in her demeanor. Her approach is less matter of fact; she’s not softer, she’d just more graceful. “It was some time ago. While you were in Emprise du Lion. He came and told the three of us, told us everything,  _ showed  _ us everything. He came at your behest. He said it was unfair of him to force you to be quiet when you were right in the first place.”

“So you’ve known. You’ve known this whole time, and you still let that disaster out there happen. People are dead!”

“We are aware, Inquisitor,” Leliana snaps. “And we should have known to have this meeting with you sooner. But with your recent return and sudden illness, things have become complicated.”

“How difficult is it to walk up to me and tell me the truth?”

“He wanted to tell you himself,” Cassandra interrupts. “Furthermore, he told us he feared this exact thing might happen and didn’t want us to tell you.”

“Oh, that makes it even better! He knew he’d lose his fucking mind and turn on us? Guess that’s not something I needed to know!”

“Inquisitor, something foul is happening in Skyhold. Cullen knew something was coming. He told us there’d be a chance he wouldn’t react well. We think this might be a set up.”

“People are still dead!”

“And there will be consequences, but we need him alive to explain what’s happened and to formulate some kind of cover for why an animal just stormed Skyhold out of nowhere.”

“You formulate your plans and create your cover, I don’t care. The Inquisition can’t falter because of this. Maybe think about telling me things like this next time.”

Isadore leaves the room. She doesn’t storm off, she doesn’t shout, she simply gathers herself and leaves.

Returning to her room, she removes her tunic to deal with her own wounds, washing them less than carefully with a water basin before applying her own medicine and proper bandages.

She was done with today. Done with what had happened. Done with Cullen and done with this stupid fucking headache that still plagued her.

How did this happen? She just keeps asking herself,  _ how could this have happened? _ She runs her fingers through messy bangs, seating herself on her bed to try and relax her nerves.

But she can’t.

She starts crying instead.

She’d tried to save him instead of killing him outright and now people were dead. Because of her. More people dead because of her! And she trusted him! He said he had control and she trusted him!

The tears are slow and the sobs are angry; she clutches the bedsheet fiercely in her hands. What did she even see in him? She told him she wasn’t scared of him and she wasn’t. She still wasn’t. She’d never been scared of him, even now that he’s left his mark on her in blood.

But how dare he say her name. How dare she smile at him when he said her name. How dare she care about him at all when all he’s done is remind her that she’s a selfish brat who can’t save anyone but herself in the end!

She collapses onto her side, face pressed into her pillow, sobs halting though tears still drip slowly down her cheek.

The tray of food still sits on her desk from earlier, but she had no appetite now. Besides, something in the room smells rotten, something that she hadn’t smelled before.

And it was a familiar kind of rotten, too. She blinks through the liquid obstructing her vision. Where does she know this from?

_ Like a flower on a corpse... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to u by this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AD-MaYAxxVE


	11. Who's Been Killed And Who's been Kissed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i call this chapter: The Fallout featuring Furry Puberty ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> this chapter brought to u by: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TQAyVdnUAWU

Cullen is still asleep after three days of nothing. They’d chained him down in a cell as far away from the populace of Skyhold as possible, but the measure now seems extreme considering he’s hardly conscious. Each of his limbs is fettered and the chains are short so he’d hardly be able to move if he could get up. They’d gone so far as to bind his muzzle shut with rope. 

Even that wasn’t the most pathetic part, Isadore thought. No, they’d cut off most of his mane and patches of fur to properly bandage some of his wounds, especially that massive tear in his throat that she was responsible for.

She doesn’t know why they went to the trouble of caring for him, it was undignified what they’d done to ensure his survival. Which, if she’s being truthful with herself, she’s almost satisfied to see. He did not deserve dignity after what he’d done.

She tries to tell herself to be more understanding, but she’s imagined far too many horrible outcomes now. The four scouts that were killed was one thing, but she would have executed him herself if he’d killed one of her companions.

Enough people had died because of her as it is. No one else needs to be added to the list.

“So, full stock of the damage has been counted for?” Isadore had spent much of the day after the incident asleep. But once she’d woken, she felt as if she’d been pushed into a spite fueled streak of productivity. Which, really, is what usually fuels most of her productivity.

“The only damage to Skyhold came from a few overturned merchants stands, easily fixed. The four scouts killed where the only reported fatalities.”

“Any other casualties?”

“A few scrapes and bruises. Nothing serious.”

The inquisitor had spent much of the last few days in discussion with Leliana. Their main priority had become finding out what had triggered their commander’s behavior as well as coming up with an excuse as to where in Thedas Cullen had disappeared to.

For now, they were saying he’d gone to Ferelden on personal business. Which was believable enough, except no one had actually seen him leave and they’d all pretty quickly collaborate that with each other.

But even worse, they have the ball at the winter palace creeping up on them and they are most likely expected to show up with their commander. Who is a cat right now.

“Scrapes and bruises? That’s it? How did he go from scrapes and bruises to murder?”

Cassandra stood watch at the door while the spymaster and the inquisitor mulled things over in front of Cullen’s cell. It was odd, but even now she chose to keep his secret from her companions. Why? They had a right to know. And, moreover, they might have some good advice.

“You mentioned thinking he was sick, correct?”

“Yes. When he came to my room, his behavior was mostly normal before it… took a turn.”

“Did anything else happen while he was there?”

“No.” Isadore is quick to reply. Perhaps too quick. She didn’t particularly want to think of that night any more. “He came to see if I was feeling any better. He was just about to leave when it happened.”

“What happened right before then?”

“Nothing. My dinner had just been delivered and he said he was going to leave me alone with my meal.”

“Why did you think he was infected then?”

Isadore stops to think, crossing her arms over her chest as she stares down at the animal chained to the stone floor in front of her. Mostly, it was what he said to her; that what was happening was not normal, that it was  _ different _ . But looking back on it, there were so many other signs.

“He told me he smelled something in my room. Well, more like, he asked me if I could smell something. He said it hurt his head. And then he got a strange nosebleed out of nowhere. I was thinking of the sick soldiers who’d died with nosebleeds but no apparent damage to their face.”

“Perhaps a symptom of this illness is aggression. They did report the sick soldiers getting  into fights with each other some time before death. It could very well be that this is the form his aggression chose to take.”

“There’s an explanation why he was so violent, but there’s still way too many holes. Why did his aggression suddenly spike right then? Most of the soldiers who’d gotten into fights had been bedridden for days beforehand.”

“Perhaps his nature naturally gave him some resistance to this disease.”

“But why did I not have the same symptoms? I was irritable at worst, and I never got any nosebleeds. Why was I not affected like the others?”

“You could have some kind of resistance of your own.”

Isadore pauses and thinks for a time. There isn’t anything she does in particular that would make her more immune to disease than anyone else, especially since she’d left clan Lavellan and been much more entrenched in human culture.

“I make a lot of herbal remedies from the garden. That’s all I can think of. Perhaps their medicinal properties warded off the disease in me for a time?”

Leliana doesn’t nod, but she has an expression of curiosity on her face. She’s probably got a hundred more threads tying themselves together in her head, different routes and explanations taking shape that the elf couldn’t even comprehend. She must have a handful of explanations, but she was still just as much in the dark as Isadore.

“Speaking of, you’ve been feeling better since that night?”

“Yes. Still groggy, but the ache is mostly gone now.”

“We haven’t had any more soldier deaths reported since that night either.”

“That’s good. But that’s also what I was afraid of.”

“What do you mean?”

“I… that night, I had a thought. I was worried that Cullen was the start of the infection. The illness didn’t start until recently when he’d begun to deal more blatantly with his lyrium withdrawal. I thought maybe… the sickness came from his other half being more present.”

“And now that he’s locked away, he can’t perpetuate the infection? Is that your theory?”

Isadore falls silent again. That was indeed a theory of her, but she didn’t even believe the words that came from her mouth. It made sense and it explained a great deal, but it didn’t explain everything, and it just… didn’t seem like him.

Cullen is, well, gently put, really fucking uptight. Like an entire stave had been shoved up his asshole and they’d just never seen it again (boy, wouldn’t that explain why he doesn’t like mages in the worst possible way). But from this condition, he was careful. He never would have allowed himself free reign if he knew it would spur him into murder. In fact, he’d be the first one insisting that he be locked up.

Furthermore, did he really spend so much more time with her and the soldiers than anyone else that they were the only ones apparently getting sick? Or was there some other reason why the advisors didn’t seem to exhibit the same ailments?

As much as she hated him right now, all of it felt very wrong.

“Well, then we should probably limit contact with him just in case,” Isadore finally answers as she turns to leave. This was all very… messy.

 

* * *

 

 

_ Cullen was wrapped up in a blanket, sitting in front of the fireplace with what may have been the most pathetically empty expression he’s ever dawned in his life.  _

_ Rosalie was asleep in the other room, but Branson and Mia were soaking wet, caked in mud, sitting just off to the side of their brother. _

_ None of them spoke. At least, not to each other. _

_ Cullen had run away. He was gone for hours, and though their mother and father insisted they stay put, Mia was far too stubborn to allow that to happen. Rosalie was too young, but Bran did not escape her urging. She knew better than her parents the places Cullen would probably run off to, and considering how damned fast Cullen could run now, they didn’t have the luxury of taking their time. _

_ Over the course of the last few weeks, strange things had been happening to him. Their mother and father were rather flippant about it all, but the kids knew it was only because they were scared. _

_ They were all scared, to be fair. Not scared  _ **_of_ ** _ Cullen, but scared  _ **_for_ ** _ him. He was just a  _ **_child_ ** _. They would hear him shouting in the middle of the night, mother rushing to his bedside to calm him down even though she knew he’d just be crying until the sun rose. He came in from the field one day and never ate meals properly again, barely chewing on scraps. And then he nearly stopped talking altogether. _

_ But that night had been one of the worst. A storm had rolled in and Cullen’s entire demeanor fell apart. He kept holding his head, covering his ears, and shaking, even after mother had held him tight for quite some time. They didn’t know what was wrong. _

_ Then the crying started. Then after the crying there was the shouting. And after the shouting came that strange, guttural, growling that the kids swore was some trick of the walls. _

_ But then Cullen was gone. He ran out into the rain and all they saw was their parents rushing after him. _

_ So they took it upon themselves to find him. And they did. Except he was naked, half buried in mud, and passed out next to a pond. _

_ He didn’t fight them when they brought him home. He didn’t even speak a word, he just kept moving as if his body still functioned properly, but his head had drifted off somewhere they could never follow. _

_ Something was happening to him they couldn’t understand. And they were scared. _

_ He didn’t deserve to suffer. _

 

* * *

 

“Feeling well enough to share a pint, ay boss?” 

Isadore is in the tavern. Again. Because now that she’s not sick anymore, she can get fucked up. And, really, what’s better emotional consolation after a man you thought you trusted turns out to be a little unhinged than getting drunk?

(She’d never expected much from men, she knew most of them to be animals. But this was ridiculous).

“Absolutely. I want to stop thinking for the rest of the night.”

Bull and Isadore got along because they shared the same basic principals: they both liked eating, drinking, and punching shit. Which are, of course, the staples of any good companionship. However, she found herself oddly gravitating here for reasons other than the ale; she had been genuinely concerned about Bull.  

It was a silly notion, really. But he’d probably saved a few lives the other day and all he had to show for it was some bruises; Cullen had thrown him around pretty hard. And now she felt like she owed him some kind of apology.

“Now that’s a dangerous game, Inquisitor. I’ll toast to that.”

“And what about you? I bet the other night hardly put a halt in your tavern time.”

Bull, for once, takes an oddly long pause. It was just the two of them at the bar; if anyone else was here, they were well across the room. Even the tavern keeper seemed to have wandered off.

“Ah, so that’s what this is about. If you wanted to talk about it, you could have just said so.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she pauses. “Except that I do. But I can’t talk to anyone else about it because no one else seems to understand why I’m so mad. I’m just so… ugh, how could I have let this happen?” 

Bull takes a swig and follows it up with a deep sigh and a slow nod of the head. “First off all, you didn’t _ ‘let it happen’ _ . Second of all, it was a bitch for all of us, I can assure you. And third, you are free to punch me as hard as possible if that’ll help.”

“If only. We’re in the fucking mountains, how could I have let that thing get in?”

“Maybe it’s because you trust him?”

“What?”

“Ben Hassrath, Inquisitor. I knew as soon as soon as Cassandra knew.”

Fucking Incredible. Of course. Isadore had found out by literally climbing into his room through his fucking roof; why doesn’t everyone know at this point? Cullen is shit at hiding secrets apparently! “Ah. And that is why you did not bring the giant axe into the fight.”

“And it was a damn good fight. I’d like to compliment him on getting out of that one hold. Kind of… wish I’d been there sooner, though. Or maybe brought the axe. Either or.”

“I wish you’d brought the axe.” she rolls her eyes, tossing back a drink.

“You really wanted him dead, huh?”

“You don’t betray a person’s trust, murder four people, and then slide away like everything’s all well. Creators, why am I the only one not defending him?”

“I have a theory.”

“And I do not want to hear it.”

“Look, I get you. I’m pissed too. If any of my boys had been hurt, there’d be more than just blood to pay.”

“But what?”

“There’s no but, Inquisitor. I was agreeing. I’m all for being pissed and drunk.”

“Well, he’s gone and opened a damned rift of his own. I have no idea how this one will figure itself out.”

“Well, you’ve got me, boss. And lots of other good people at your side. No matter what shit they throw at us, we’ll have your back.”

“I hope so. I don’t want to see anyone else get hurt.”

Isadore sighs herself before leaning back to stretch her neck. She just wanted to relax, but she couldn’t She couldn’t because she was thinking about way too many things at once, and she’s not good at that. She used to only caring about herself and one other person. But now that there’s hundreds of people she cares about? It’s a mess. Now she knows why she hates responsibility.

With her neck craned back, she opens her eyes with a flicker only to catch a glimpse of someone on the steps.

“Bull, don’t drink my ale. I have to go talk to someone real quick.”

Bull hardly seems to oppose. And it wouldn’t matter because Isadore doesn’t give him a chance to. She simply stands up and makes her way to the steps.

Maybe it was because Bull knew exactly what she was going to do. Or maybe it was because he knew better than to argue with her. Mostly, she just thinks it’s because he knows she wouldn’t have answered him anyway.

“You were eavesdropping. You know that’s inappropriate.”

“...Oh. Yes, of course. You wanted to talk about it though. That’s what you said, isn’t it?”

Isadore was on the top floor of the tavern, a place where few people visited except rats and one particularly compassionate spirit.

“Reading minds is also inappropriate.”

“I wasn’t reading your mind, though. That’s what you said.”

Well, Cole wasn’t wrong; she had said that. She still raises an eyebrow at him anyway.

“The Iron Bull’s theory is right. Maybe not all of it… I don’t think that’s the appropriate use of a leash —”

“ _ Cole _ .”

“ — but you’re mad because you liked him and you think he betrayed you.”

“Cole, I know what you heard, but I really don’t want to have this heart to heart right now. Especially when I’m trying to get drunk.”

“You do, though. You want someone to tell you it’s not your fault… even though you’ll ignore them anyway. But it isn’t your fault. Why would you want someone to tell you you’re not wrong if you’ll argue the opposite? I don’t understand.”

“It’s complicated.” She couldn’t get mad at him. She couldn’t even argue with his reasoning. She herself didn’t know why people were this way; why she would desperately want for forgiveness and then deny it when granted. “People are complicated. Especially with each other.”

“You’re mad because you said you’d never let this happen. You said you’d never let anyone hurt you. But he wasn’t trying to hurt you. So I don’t understand why you’re mad.”

“Just because someone didn’t mean to hurt you doesn’t mean they didn’t still hurt you, Cole.”

“His head was too loud. He could hear the people shouting, but he couldn’t understand them. And he didn’t want to see anyone else get hurt. He was scared.”

“What was he scared of?”

“Losing something important.”

“What?”

“There was something inside you. There was something inside the Inquisition. The bad thing. It was singing to him. It made him change. The flower on the corpse. He wanted to protect everyone.”

“How could he have been protecting people? I don’t — people are dead.”

“He heard it. The flower. It was inside you and he wanted to get it out.”

“Something inside me? Cole, I don’t… do you know what’s happening? Cole if you know something—”

“I know what he was thinking. I know what you were thinking. You think he went savage. He thought he was protecting people.”

“From the flower on the corpse?”

“Yes.”

Something smacked Isadore in the face. The flower on the corpse. The smell that lingered around everyone infected. The smell of death and rot and sweet song.

She knows what it is. 


	12. The Flower on the Corpse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a good chapter. But on the bright side, I can assure u that this is the last chapter Isadore will so blatantly hate Cullen so !!!

“I had assumed he wasn’t being literal. I assumed it was just… a reference to the smell of something sweet covering up something rotting. But it wasn’t a reference. He didn’t know it, but he was exactly right.” 

“Inquisitor, I’m not exactly sure what you’re referring to.”

“Cullen described the sickness as smelling like a flower on a corpse. At the time, both of us assumed that was just a… just a comparison. But it wasn’t. It’s literally a flower. The sickness is literally a flower.”

Isadore didn’t know how to word things. She didn’t know how to speak properly and effectively and intelligently. Especially with people who clearly knew the game better than her.

But, for once, she knew something they didn’t.

“A flower on a corpse? When was this?” Leliana clasps her hands together in front of her face, eyes narrowed on the inquisitor in the dim light of the night.

“When he came to my room. We had both smelled the same rot around the place. He was trying to describe it to me; we spent so long trying to figure out what kind of sickness could cause that kind of death, we didn’t stop to think that maybe it’s not a sickness at all.”

“Elaborate.”

“It’s not an infection. People are  _ poisoned _ .”

Leliana, Josephine, Cassandra and the Inquisitor had gathered at the war table, the room illuminated by the candles scattered haphazardly around the windows. As soon as Isadore had finished speaking to Cole, she knew this conversation needed to happen. Bull was a little bummed (albeit understanding) to lose his drinking partner, but Cole loved the idea of helping by keeping an eye on the commander.

“Continue.”

“Herbs aren’t just for healing. Animals learn to avoid certain plants because they  _ smell like death _ . Some plants upset your stomach, some plants will deteriorate your health over a matter of days if you are continually exposed to them, some plants are known to cause aggression. We’re  _ literally  _ dealing with a flower on a corpse here.”

“And you’re certain of this somehow?”

“I… I don’t know exactly what plant we’re dealing with here, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. Why Cullen reacted so violently when exposed to just the scent — and my people’s natural remedies often make us more hardy when it comes to poisons.”

“Inquisitor, you are aware of what this then implies.”

Isadore leans forward to place her hands on the war table. She had known what this conjecture meant the second she came to it, but part of her kept assuming there was some other piece that she was missing in all this.

“If we were poisoned, someone had to do the poisoning.”

“That someone would have had to continually poison us for weeks then,” Josephine adds, her brow furrowed in surprise at the revelation. “How could they have done such a thing? And why the discriminate poisoning? I can understand the Inquisitor but… why not the rest of the advisers? Why not the nobles that have gathered with us?”

“Perhaps the poisoning came from active duty,” Cassandra proposes. “The soldiers and the Inquisitor are in the direct line of conflict more often than others.”

“But my companions didn’t fall ill?”

“They were not all in the field as much as you alone. They very well could have been poisoned just not enough to make them ill.”

“Why such a slow poison? If you want someone dead, there are plenty of toxins that can kill someone within the hour.” Well, Leliana wasn’t wrong.

“Poisons like that come in incredibly small doses,” Isadore continues, still staring at the war table. “But more blatantly, when you kill someone so quickly like that with a poison, everyone immediately realizes it’s a poison and then what? You’ve killed one person and defenses have been doubled. No, they were trying to take out hundreds at the same time while making us think it was some kind of disease.”

“Whatever it may be, if it got in once, there’s a chance it will get in again. We have to stop this now while there’s a window.”

“Some things still aren’t adding up. I just don’t understand why — “

Isadore is halfway through a sentence when, in the actual blink of an eye, there’s someone sitting on the war table.

“ — Again? Cole, we’ve had this discussion.”

“I know I’m not a war, Inquisitor. But I needed to get your attention and you’re all looking at the table anyway…”

“What did you need our attention for?”

“He’s awake. The commander. He came back. Well, sort of. He’s almost back. Just a little bit missing — “

Isadore looks at Leliana who looks at Cassandra who looks at Josephine; at the same moment, they’d all had exactly the same thought.

It was time to give the commander a visit.

 

* * *

 

 

Cullen didn’t look any better now than he had the other day when he was unconscious. Actually, he looks worse, if that’s somehow possible. At least when he was asleep he had some sense of peace. Now he just looks… broken. 

It was the manacles, she thinks. Even though he was human once more, they had not unlocked the chains that bound him to the ground. Actually, the fact that they can still fit around his wrists and ankles is a testament to how tight they’d been on him in his other form.

No one had unlocked his cell either. And why would they? He was still considered dangerous and was still liable for his actions, but it felt wrong. Looking at him as he is, there’s no possible way he posed any threat. He’s hardly keeping his eyes open.

The best they’d done for him is hand him a blanket through the bars of his enclosure. Dirty fingers clutched weakly at the fabric as he pulled his bare limbs as close to his body as possible, his head leaning against the wall with his back against the wall perpendicular. He is literally half awake, shaking in the corner.

“Has anyone spoken to him?” Isadore finally opens her mouth to break the silence.  

“No. He hasn’t said anything.” Cassandra crosses her arms, brow narrowed on the cell before her. “I asked him if he was alright and I received no answer.”

“He might still be in a haze. He has been unconscious for several days.” Leliana mimics Cassandra with a frown drawn across her face as well. Hers is more subtle, but still obvious.

“His head is very heavy. He can’t understand what we’re saying.” Cole is inside the cell, picking at his own fingers as he speaks; Cullen makes no motion to acknowledge the spirit.

“Cole, is that a good idea? To be in there?”

“Why would it be a bad idea?”

“You know… isn’t that a little dangerous?”

“How?”

“...Never mind.” Isadore realized arguing with him was pointless; he didn’t see Cullen as any sort of threat, just another person who needed help.

“He was stuck for so long. He wanted to open his mouth to speak but the words couldn’t come out. Scratching at his throat, bleeding — everything was too hot and he doesn’t remember why. And now he’s scared because he’s forgotten how to speak. He can’t understand any of you. Too loud, too fast, a bell ringing over a crowd, an ancient language, the song he’s forgotten the words too….”

“He’s in some kind of shock,” Leliana adds after Cole has finished. That much was obvious. How to deal with it was the problem. “Even if he could understand what we’re saying, I doubt he’d reply.”

“Cole, how can we help him?”

“He will return on his own. He needs to remember himself. We’re all too loud.”

“We should leave the commander to recuperate on his own. Interrogating him now will bring us nothing,” Cassandra sighs.

“I’ll stay and watch him in case he comes around faster than expected.”

“Inquisitor, are you sure? It could be hours. Days, even.”

“There’s no way I’ll sleep anyway. Cole will be nearby if I need anything. This is just… it’s important to me. Whoever is responsible for this poisoning will be brought to justice and I want to be the first person to hear it.”

 

* * *

 

_ “Idi, are you alright?” _

_ “Isa, you’re not supposed to be here. You’re going to get in trouble!” _

_ “I’m already in trouble, it’s too late for arguing now. Are you hurt?” _

_ “Just scratches. You really should go home, we’re not supposed to be seen together—” _

_ “ — Until we prove we’re responsible? And when will that be? She’s just trying to torture us. She thinks we’re too dependent on each other.” _

_ “I know what she wants. Ma halani, Isa — we don’t need to incur any more wrath from anyone. And I’m fine!” _

_ “Idi, when you get hurt, it hurts me too. You know that. You’re not fine — what did they do?” _

_ “Nothing… just a few scares from the merchants. I shouldn’t have gone alone, I know, but I took care of myself.” _

_ “You’re just… we’re just kids! How could she have sent you alone? Why would she not let me follow?” _

_ “Ma melava halani, Isa. Ma serranas. Go home. I will wait a time and follow.” _

_ “Dareth shiral, mir falon.” _

 

* * *

 

“It was poison. No one’s told you that yet. But that’s what it was. It wasn’t a sickness or an infection… it was poison. Can’t believe I didn’t figure that out sooner.” 

Isadore sat on the cold stone floor with her back against the wall beside Cullen’s cell. The dungeon was dimly lit, but uncomfortable, so even if she did want to sleep, so most likely would not have been able to.

For a long time, she’d sat there in silence. But that bored her after a time. So she paced. And after that became equally dull (and anxiety inducing) she started to talk to him. Nothing in particular and nothing private, but she knew he could hear her and sooner or later he’d be able to respond.

“You were poisoned. That’s how this all happened. That’s how you got here. I guess that’s how I got here too.”

The elf tilts her head back and sighs. She wanted this all to be over with. But what exactly did she expect Cullen to tell her? Even if he did remember the entire event, what would she gain from his knowledge?

Maybe he’d smelled something else. Maybe she could use that knowledge to figure out exactly what plant had been used to poison them.

But she knows that’s not the real reason she’s waiting for him to wake up.

She felt bad.

He’d attacked her friends and he’d killed people, but looking back on it, was it even really his fault? Her head keeps screaming  _ ‘No! Don’t feel bad for him! He still hurt people! Why wasn’t he strong enough to control himself?’ _ but there’s some faint, illogical whisper that says otherwise. He’d lost control, but it wasn’t because he let it happen — he’d been poisoned. He was still responsible for his actions, but he didn’t want to hurt anyone; she knows that for sure, at least.

It wasn’t fair what had happened to him, but he was liable for it anyway. Just because he didn’t mean to hurt anyone doesn’t mean he didn’t still hurt someone.

“We will get to the bottom of this all. That I can promise.”

“Bottom of what?”

“Whoever is responsible for this. Whoever — wait — “

Isadore lifts her back off the wall and turns around to face the cell. His cell. For a moment, she assumed she imagined it. But she couldn’t have, right? She even assumed for a moment she’d been talking to herself. But that wasn’t it at all.

“...My throat hurts — it’s hard to talk.”

“Cullen, you can hear me? How long have you been able to hear me?” Isadore leans forward, resisting the urge to wrap her fingers around the bars of the cell.

“A long time… haven’t understood most of it…” Cullen tries to lift his head only to find it falling to the side again.

“That’s what Cole said… what happened?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Isadore pauses. What does he remember? What  _ doesn’t  _ he remember? If he’s heard them speaking, he has to know something is wrong?

She comes to realize there’s a possibility he doesn’t know any of what he’s done.

“So you haven’t… heard any of us? None of it?”

“... Bits and pieces came through… it all sounded like a foreign tongue… it came back to me slowly but I thought I’d gone mad for a while…”

“Why? It was only a few hours, but you were really… out of it.”

“I… I’m not sure. I can’t… I can’t imagine why it would happen…”

“Do you know where you are?”

“... The dungeon from the looks of it — ah —” his chains rattle slightly when he draws a hand to his temple, as if it pained him. “I don’t remember coming here. I remember… I was in your room and I… something felt out of place and I…”

Cullen trails off slowly letting his head fall into his hands. He knew.

“I turned, didn’t I? That’s why I’m in here. Oh, Maker, no… no, no no — did I hurt you? Did someone get hurt? Maker, please tell me I didn’t hurt anyone.”

Isadore bites her tongue. Four people. He’d killed four people, and he doesn’t remember doing any of it. The realization would crush him.

“You… you hurt a few people.” She’s not lying to him, she’s just not giving him the whole truth. He had a right to know what he’d done, but maybe not all at once. He needed to know that he’d lost control but she couldn’t handle the idea of revealing to him that people had died at his hand. “Did you hear me when I spoke of the poison?”

Cullen doesn’t respond. In the dim light of the cell, she sees him drag his hands across the back of his neck, his head placed between his knees. There was nothing she could do for him.

He’s killed people before. She’s killed people before. But that was different. You could shut that emotion away; you could hide that behind a wall of moral righteousness and say ‘ _ I had to kill that person because they were bad. I was saving people. _ ’ You could even say  _ ‘it was in self defense. I had to protect myself. _ ’ Those were excuses.

Cullen had killed some of his own people. There was no excuse for himself.

“Listen to me — Cullen, listen — did you hear me? You were poisoned. We were all poisoned. Your soldiers even  _ hurt each other _ when poisoned — “

“I’m still responsible for my actions!” Cullen snaps, tearing his dirty face away from his hands to bark at her. With a cough, he pulls his limbs close to himself again, voice strained and ragged.

She was partly to blame for that.

“I understand. But you are still commander and we still need your help.”

“Do they know?”

“Does who know?”

“The Inquisition. Do they know it was me?”

“No, they don’t. Just the advisers and and a few of my companions.”

“You should have killed me.”

“What?”

“If I became a threat to the people, you should have killed me.”

“You’re serious?”

“Absolutely. The lives of these people are worth no less than mine.”

“You are not a threat to the Inquisition.”

“Inquisitor I hurt people—”

“ — Because you were  _ poisoned _ . You know who else was poisoned? The soldiers. Do you know who else fought each other? Those same poisoned soldiers.  _ You  _ aren’t a threat to the Inquisition. This poison is.”

“You can’t justify what I’ve done.”

“I’m not trying to justify what you’ve done, Cullen. I’m saying you had no choice.”

“No choice? The difference between me and those men is that they’re not abominations! I am no better than a mage possessed by a demon! It doesn’t matter if we were all poisoned — they’re not the ones that can’t be subdued when they’re out of control! I made the  _ choice  _ to be here. I made the  _ choice  _ to allow myself to be here when I’ve been nothing more than an explosion waiting to set off.”

“I’m tired of your excuses Cullen. How many different ways can I tell you that I don’t give a shit about what you are! This self deprecation needs to  _ stop _ . You’re doing it because if you admit your faults first, then no one else can call you worse, right? You call yourself an abomination so that no one else can. I get it. Why do you think I take every opportunity to remind you and everyone around me that I’m not smart? I don’t do it because I want you all to feel bad for me, I do it because I don’t want people to be let down when I fail them! But guess what? We’ve both still got a job to do and people to protect — people still need us! And if you want to wallow instead of helping me figure this mess out,  _ then I don’t  _ **_need_ ** _ you _ .”

Isadore is on her feet, fingers clenched into fists at her side. Her eyes are alight with anger and her whole body shakes. She didn’t need anyone. Especially not a pity case like this man in front of her who would rather die than own up to his mistake.

“Isadore…”

The inquisitor laughs through a scoff and well muffled tears. Oh, so now he wants to try and comfort her. What a fucking gentleman! She’s tired of men blaming all their problems on their  _ nature _ . She’s tired of having her momentary allowances of sympathy thrown back in her face. And she’s tired of never being good enough to make things  _ right _ .

“If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. There you go! If you need someone to blame, blame me! Because I don’t plan to sit on my ass and wait for the executioner's axe. I’m going to do something.”

“Isa, you’ve given up everything for these people. You don’t owe them anything. You can’t save everyone.”

“Take your own advice and  _ do not begin to tell me what I have given up. _ “

“I… I don’t even know how you expect me to help — “

“Do you remember the smell? The flower on the corpse?”

“...Vaguely — “

“ — You need to remember it. What you smelled right before you turned.”

“I’d probably… recognize it if I smelled it again.”

“Good. We have to find where it came from and your nose is the best lead we’ve got right now.”

“This doesn’t… this doesn’t feel right.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t care what it feels like. We have a window we need to take.”

The sun would be up soon and she had plans to get on this case as soon as she could. They would surely disapprove of allowing Cullen out, but she’d been certain about what she’d said before: he wasn’t a threat to the inquisition any more. Without the poison, he would be more man than animal, and that’s what they needed right then.

The consequences for his actions would be dealt with later…

… She still hates him. Why does she wish this would all sweep neatly under a rug then? She, of all people, should know that’s not how sins work. And yet…

“They fought back, at least.”

“What?”

“When I lost control, they did fight me at least. That’s how they got themselves hurt, right?”

Don’t tell him yes. The men killed weren’t even fighting him and she’d been the one to deal most of the damage — she’s the one that nearly tore his throat out after all.  _ If you tell him yes, he’s going to use that to feel less guilty about what he’s done. That’s why he’s asking. _

_ And you were the one who hurt him so badly in the first place. _

_ Shut up! He killed four people! It shouldn’t matter what you did to save your friends! _

“Yes. You trained your soldiers well, commander.” 


	13. Give Me Sympathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate title: "communism was just a red herring" 
> 
> this chapter brought to u by this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qUmYnnVsqao

“Execution? Already?” 

“The nobles are calling for his head. They can’t imagine why we let him live in the first place.”

“But we still need him alive!”

“Believe me, we have plenty of reasons to keep the commander alive. But we also have to show something to these people. A massive sickness? A beast emerging out of nowhere to attack soldiers and scouts? We’re going to lose support, Inquisitor. We’re on thin ice as it is, and we’ll see support flee in droves if we don’t prove that we can protect our people.”

Josephine and Leliana had allowed for Cullen’s release, but while he cleaned himself up, they made the Inquisitor very aware of their situation: the people of the Inquisition called for his execution as well as an explanation for the sickness that’d fallen over them.

Of course, they didn’t specifically ask for  _ Cullen’s  _ death, but they wanted proof that the animal in the dungeons had been killed.

“How much time do we have before any real action is expected?”

“Not much, Inquisitor. This needs to be taken care of as quickly and discreetly as possible.”

“And then what? After we find the source of the poisoning, what will become of Cullen?”

There’s a long pause. The inquisition is completely unaware of what its commander has done, but they’re still waiting for the head of the animal that had gone on a rampage. Furthermore, Cullen is still unaware of exactly the damage he’s done; he’s going to find out sooner or later that he killed people and then what? He’d probably give his neck to the executioner willingly.

“Solving the case of the poisoning may be enough to quell the crowds,” Josephine eventually manages. “If we find someone responsible, we can try and shift all the blame to them. Make an example of their treachery.”

“Use them as a scapegoat.”

“...Yes.”

Isadore sighs. This would not end well. Even if they could get Cullen off the hook and out of public eye, he would never allow himself the same courtesy. He’d go right back to wallowing in self loathing if he discovered the truth.

“We must remain calm either way,” Leliana adds. “The people must see that we have the situation under control.”

The elf raises an eyebrow. They didn’t have anything under control, so it’s a good thing she’s excellent at faking it.

“I’ll go talk to Cullen, then. We’ve got to tell him something, at least.”

“Tell me what?”

The three women had been gathered around Josephine’s desk, Josie taking her own seat with Leliana and Isadore standing to the front and side respectively. But when the commander enters their conversation, none of them seem to be particularly surprised or moved.

Apparently, they’re all very good at faking it.

“Skyhold calls for an explanation to the illness.” Leliana is telling the truth, of course, just not the whole truth. She very skillfully leaves out the request for his execution. “We have little time to appease them.”

“I… I suppose that explains the eagerness to wake me.” Cullen can’t make eye contact with any of them. Aside from Isadore, no one in this room has had an actual conversation with him about what had happened. Leliana and Josephine remained poised, but you could feel how uncomfortable they all were.

Isadore knows that feeling: to have everyone you know and care about suddenly look at you like they don’t recognize you at all.

“You are our best chance at finding where this poison originated.”

“It’s… yes. I will do my best.”

“And as far as anyone is concerned,” Leliana continues. “You were in Ferelden on personal business. We’ve given you a summary of the situation and you are now investigating for weaknesses in our defense.”

“Is that the best explanation we have for Cullen’s absence?”

“If anyone is concerned, mention a family emergency,” Josephine adds. “I find that people are less inclined to pry if you keep it personal.”

“I find the opposite,” Leliana returns. “People are naturally curious. But as commander, you should face little opposition.”

Isadore glances at Cullen, who looks about three seconds away from an emotional breakdown at any given time. “Or, perhaps, don’t speak at all. Allow me to cover.”

The advisers all gently nod in agreement.

“Where are we to start then?” Cullen prompts, most likely eager to escape their attention.

“We’re starting in the barracks. That appears to be where the sickness originated. If we’re lucky, we’ll find out how it was distributed from there.”

“Josephine and I will leave you to it then. Cassandra will keep an eye out for your backs while we tend to matters of politics. The people are not even aware that this is a case of poison yet. We should keep things quiet as to not rouse suspicion, but they  _ need  _ to know sooner rather than later.”

“Don’t worry. I refuse to come back without answers.”

Isadore turns to leave, but Cullen almost seems to have forgotten how to walk for a moment; she stands at the door waiting for him for a bit as he, apparently, hunts for something to say.

In the end, he says nothing. He lets his lips hang ajar for far too long before he nods to the other advisers and follows her suit.

“Josephine and Leliana are too poised to let me know just how angry they are with me. There words will be biting once this is all over.” Cullen has already begun to dip back into self-pity territory and Isadore can only humor it for so long.

“Any anger towards you is of little concern. They’re too professional to allow such things to delay action.”

“You can still see it in their expressions. They don’t trust me anymore.”

“You worry too much about what other people think.”

“How am I supposed to worry less?”

“Do you trust yourself?”

Cullen falls silent as they walk into the courtyard. It was a sunny afternoon and the chill of the mountain air was lessened by the lack of breeze. The commander kept tugging at the collar of his shirt, partially out of anxiety and partially because there was still a half healed wound on the side of his throat that he likely wished to cover.

She couldn’t assume that he healed any faster than a human being, but he must at least be more resilient; he cleaned up well enough for any external damage to be considered a hazard of the job. Still, she knew under his casual attire, he was housing the scars of sword, arrow, and qunari horn to the back.

He hadn’t shaved in some time, however, and if he didn’t naturally look so damn exhausted all the time, the purple under his eyes would be more concerning.

“This poison, you think it’s some kind of flower or herb?” Cullen changes the subject slightly, clearly too anxious to continue the previous train of conversation.

“Yes. The problem is, I don’t know which one. I have knowledge of many different poisonous plants but… this one seems to work differently than any kind the dalish use in any capacity.”

“But you swear a familiarity in it?”

“...Yes. It’s like something I learned as a child, something I was told to avoid. I can’t remember why, and there are many herbs we don’t collect for a myriad of different reasons, but I suppose that’s why this one eludes me.”

“Perhaps that is why they used it as a poison in the first place. Something even you would not recognize?”

“Perhaps. But if they wished to assassinate me, they could have done much better. I’m almost insulted.”

Cullen musters a half laugh that comes out as more of a huff of air than anything else. Of course, in such a dire and dangerous situation, Isadore is insulted by how poor the enemies attempt on her life was.  

“Inquisitor, Commander — the hall has since been cleared of the dead, but everything else is as it was.” The two are greeted by the lieutenant at the door, someone who already had too much to deal with.

“You were told of our arrival?”

“Yes, by the spymaster. Unfortunately, word came after we’d already removed the bodies. I’ve been informed to keep any discoveries confidential, so I will guarantee your privacy.”

“Thank you. Tend to the recovering soldiers and let us investigate. You’ll be told when we’re clear of the area.”

The lieutenant nods and sees his way out, allowing Cullen and Isadore the privacy of this strip of barracks where at least fifteen soldiers had perished from illness. It was odd to still see so much blood and discord about the room without any bodies, and of course the smell had only lingered, but the environment was so much different now than their first visit.

“The smell is still here,” Cullen informs, slowly approaching the center of the narrow room. “But it’s different. It smells more like death and less like a flower.”

“I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean.”

“I mean… I don’t think the poison came from here. I don’t even think it was here at all. At least… not as a flower. I can barely smell the remnants of it’s effect but… I don’t smell the same thing I did that night.”

“So the poison was here… but also not here. Okay. Why not.”

“More like… the soldiers carried the smell of sickness in here, but they weren’t actually administered it here. I guess? It’s hard to tell… the scent is so diluted by now, I can only just make it out.”

“So really all we can say for certain is that the soldiers in here were in fact poisoned. We just don’t know with what or how.”

“...Yes.”

Isadore rubs the bridge of her nose. She had hoped they’d find some trace of the flower among their belongings, but apparently not. And now all their leads would be the same as shooting in the dark.

“Perhaps we should look less for the flower itself and more for… I don’t know, how it was administered? We might be able to find how it was brought in easier.”

“Well… there’s a few different ways for poisons like this to work. It could have been mixed into a potion and slipped in a drink, some flowers are harmless unless they come in contact with blood, some are crushed into a fine powder and… there are poisons that can be made into gaseous clouds that disappear without a trace.”

Cullen frowns and focuses on something that isn’t there. Clearly, he’s thinking, trying to come up with a sort of plan, but he’s still silent for long enough to be concerning.

“It… it can’t be the gas. Too distinct of a smell, and I absolutely would have seen it that night In your room for the scent to be so noticeable.”

“Can’t have been by blood then either, I suppose.”

“It had to have been ingested, then. Could the water supply have been poisoned? That dilution could explain why the poison took so long to make people ill.”

“No, we already thought about that. The fresh water springs are too easily renewed for that.”

“We had to have physically consumed the poison then without knowing it.”

“Tell the lieutenant he can clean this room. We have to investigate the kitchen.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Something was definitely here,” Cullen scrunches up his nose, barely five steps into the kitchen. 

It’d taken a little finesse, but with two scouts at each entrance, the Inquisitor and the commander we able to commandeer privacy in here for a few moments at least. Of course it’d caused some raised eyebrows, but there was no gentle way to evacuate a room for inspection.

“The staff will want their kitchen back shortly. We should probably make haste. What can you tell me?”

“...I can tell you what I just told you,” he sighs, looking defeated rather than indignant. “It was here. But it’s not here now.”

“Someone is bringing it into the kitchen? How are they getting it into the food then?”

“Alright… what do we know about this poison? When consumed, it makes people aggressive — aggressive enough to attack one another. It also causes internal bleeding after prolonged exposure, nausea, aches, tiredness…”

“That describes a lot of poisons, though, doesn’t it?”

“The only thing that stands out is the smell. The smell of something sweet on something rotten…”

“This must ring a bell for you.”

“It does. It’s like the name is on the tip of my tongue and I just can’t recall it. It’s like there’s one piece we’re missing and I don’t know what it is.” Isadore laughs to herself, much like the muffled huff Cullen had afforded earlier.  “I know much about herbs, but I learned from someone else. I sort of wish they were here now. They’d know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“A family member?”

“...You could say that. I’m just trying to… think what they’d do in this situation.”

“At the very least, we should tell the others what we found out. It’s not much, but it’s something.”

“Right. Perhaps they can shed some more light onto our situation.”

Isadore relieves the scout at the door of his watch duty, instructing him to alert Leliana. They were to gather back at Josephine’s desk to discuss a strategy, one that would no doubt involve a deep investigation into their food sources.

Cullen felt no satisfaction in what they’d uncovered. Isadore could see it on the look in his eyes. He was obviously still thinking about what would become of him. Even if they found a way to keep him alive, the guilt would gnaw away at his subconscious for the rest of his life.

The inquisitor felt bad for him. Since she’d had time to cool off, she’d garnered the slightest sense of sympathy for him. It was meager, but she had finally managed to convince herself that it wasn’t all his fault. His teeth and claws had done the deed, but it’s not as if he poisoned himself.

“Inquisitor, you sent a scout for me?”

“Yes. Cullen and I may have found something.”

Isadore, Josie, and Cullen had waited for only a moment before the spymaster joined them. She appeared about as eager as she ever had, but she kept it well veiled behind that stoic expression of hers.

“You have?”

“...Sort of. We’ve determined how the poison was administered — someone is poisoning the food.”

“You’re certain of this?”

“Yes but… we don’t believe it’s anyone in the kitchen staff — at least not the cooks. It’s someone else poisoning the food after it’s been cooked.”

“Are you… are we suggesting a traitor in the ranks?” Josephine interrupts, shock in her voice.

“It’s… the only way possible. And it was a possibility we should have more seriously considered from the beginning.”

“This poison has been so subtle… that only explains how they were able to get it in.”

“Yes. At this point, basically everyone's a suspect.”

“Well… if it’s an issue of food, the best step is to begin closely monitoring our food. We’ll have to place well trusted guards amongst kitchen staff to see what goes in and out.”

“And what if the traitor is more clever than that?”

“Have we given anyone reason to suspect we’re on to them?”

“Perhaps not, but if they’re smart, who knows what they know —”

Isa is cut off by a knock at the door. Very quickly, all of them clear their mouths of anything to do with the conspiracy they’d just been discussing.

“Come in.”

“Lady Leliana — I’ve news for you.”

“Is it imperative?”

“The scouts that were killed in the skirmish the other night — we can’t find their names on the register. Some records may have gone missing.”

“Scouts killed?”

Isadore can feel her heart launch into her throat the second Cullen speaks. The scout obviously thought nothing of it because, of course, the commander had been informed, had he not? He knows all about the scouts that killed the night that animal went wild. Because what reason would they have not to tell him?

“I will investigate the matter further. Thank you for the report.” Leliana gives the scout a look that could have killed a man, and he must have feared for his safety then because he immediately turned around to leave.

The elf almost wishes he hadn’t left. At least then they wouldn’t be sitting in this awkward silence.

“When were scouts killed?” Cullen continues, his voice not yet desperate but still very concerned.

None of them chose to speak. Who would it be to reveal the truth to him? Who would it be to destroy every ounce of self worth he retained upon the realization that he had killed some of their own.

“What happened?”

“Cullen… the situation is complicated,” Leliana starts, the only one in the room who could probably articulate what was happening.

“When were they killed, Leliana.”

Cullen’s words aren’t a question. They’re a command. There’s the slightest waver in his voice but he stands as still as possible, somehow glaring at all three of them at once.

“The matter is still very much under investigation —”

“ — How many?”

“What?”

“How many were killed.”

Silence again. Long, heavy, painful silence that sat on her chest and threatened to snap her rib cage.

“Four.”

“Four? Four people were killed and you… you didn’t tell me because what? Because you were protecting me? Because you didn’t want me to know that I’d killed four  _ fucking  _ people?”

“We were waiting until the matter of the poison was settled to tell you the full details,” Josephine offers, her face all bunch up into worry. “We wanted to tell you in a… in a better setting.”

“You didn’t want me distracted by what I’d done! If you could have kept this from me forever, you would have!”

“This was not our intention — there was just so much chaos we could not afford to add more — “

Cullen is rubbing his temples, palms sliding across his face as if wiping his eyes again and again would make this revelation any easier. “You lied to me — you all lied to me — “

“ — No one lied to you, commander.”

“You just didn’t tell me the truth. Maker — why are you defending me? How could you twist the system like this? To suit your own agendas? You’d allow me to continue being commander after all of this? How? How can you… how can you twist your words like this to keep me from facing consequences — I deserve death for this!”

“The Inquisition needs to remain united — it needs its commander —”

“ _ You did this to save face _ ? What the Inquisition needs is a real commander, someone they can trust, not someone who can… who can just turn on them like that!”

“Cullen there’s still much we don’t know — “

“ — I can’t do this. I can’t keep lying like this. I can’t keep… existing like this.”

“Let’s not get drastic. We all need to just settle down and communicate.”

“You still don’t seem to get it! You’re not the ones that killed your own men!”

Cullen’s hands are shaking, jaw trembling as he grits his teeth and flares his nostrils. They had not seen him like Isadore had. They had not seen him turn and lose every sense of himself like he’d never been Cullen at all. And the way he stands there now, she almost starts shaking too.

He grabs the back of his head and runs his fingers down to his neck; he keeps opening his mouth as if to speak but all that comes out is exasperated huffs and sharp exhales.

He then promptly turns around and storms out of the room.

“Cullen — “

“Stay here — “ Isadore had not spoken this entire half of the conversation. She had not offered him comfort, she had not contended, she had simply stared in horror and guilt. But when he left, she was the first to rise to action. “ — I’ll go after him.”

She enters the main hall to find only a few soldiers with turned heads; it was clear the commanders exit had raised a few eyebrows, but not so much that anyone felt compelled to leave their post.

“Cullen — stop, we need to talk — where are you going?”

“It doesn’t matter, I can’t stay here.”

“Stop it — you can’t do this! We need to talk this through?”

“For what? So we can brush it under the rug until I end up killing someone else?”

“Guess what — people I care about are dead because of me too. And you don’t see me storming off and ignoring my responsibilities. I will not pity you!”

Cullen and Isadore are the only ones standing on the stone bridge to the commander’s office. Her breathing is ragged and heavy, but she keeps her fingers curled into fists at her side as she stares daggers into his backside.

“You can tell me it’s not my fault all you want. At the end of the day, I’m still the one that ended their lives.”

“Then you, of all people, should want to attone. You should want to find who’s responsible and bring them to justice!”

“I have lived with this for too long to not know this day would come.”

“You’re giving up? You’re really going to quit, just like that? How can you say you ever cared for these men and women at all if you won’t fight for them now?”

“Because they’re better off without me, Isadore! You all are — “

“ — You have no right to decide your importance to other people. You have no right to abandon them. I don’t care if you think you’re doing the right thing, you’re just being selfish! You don’t abandon your family! You don’t ignore them when they need you because you’re scared — you don’t make them fend for themselves and then… and then just watch them fail —”

“ — Isa, what are you — “

“ — I don’t believe people are born bad. So stop blaming everything on what you are and just act like the man who agreed to fucking lead the Inquisition army in the first place!”

Isadore swallows her tears. He absolutely would not see her cry. He would look her in the eyes and he would know fear — he would see only an angry, fire fueled determination, a golden steadfastness and a vicious scowl on her face.

He would not know that he broke her heart.

“Inquisitor, is everything alright? We heard shouting.”

There’s a scout a few feet behind her. How loud had their argument been? How bitter must both of them appear in this moment?

“Everything is fine. I’m leaving.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

Isadore’s violent glare is back on Cullen.Is he trying to tell her she can’t leave? How dare he — how dare he tell her anything. If she had her bow, she would have knocked him upside the head by now.

But his stare matched her intensity. It wasn’t distressed or sorrowful, it was angry. Viciously angry. Angry like she’s only seen twice thus far.

And then there’s the growl out the back of his throat.

“I will kill you myself if you try anything.”

To no one’s surprise, he tries something.

Cullen had only been a few feet away from her on the bridge, so he’s covered that distance in what could have been seconds. She shouts at him, but no actual words come out. None that are distinguishable anyway, and none that anyone would have heard anyway over the shock of the commander barreling past the Inquisitor to tackle a scout to the ground.

“Stop it now!” Isadore grabs Cullen’s arm and pulls, but it does not shake him. His hands are wrapped firmly around the scouts throat, who is now struggling to breath, while his teeth elongate into fangs in his mouth.

It was happening again. It was going to happen all over again. The wild thudding in her chest blocked out all other sounds because she cannot believe she let this happen again.

How did this happen again?

Why is this happening again?

Why… is it… happening… again…

Why is it…

_ You know why. _

_ You know why because Idir knew why — that smug little ass isn’t even here and he’s still giving you all the answers. _

“Cullen get off! Stop!” She grabs his shoulders and shakes. “Listen, you have to stop this — it’s going to be ok but you have to stop!”

She’s punching his side, trying everything she can to pull him from this animal instinct. Because she’d realized, just then, that’s exactly what it was. Instinct.

“You don’t need to protect us! I can take care of this now! It’s ok!”

The scout is choking, finger scraping at the stone as his eyes beg for air; Cullen would suffocate him if he didn’t tear out his throat first.

The pinned man gasps and swallows as much air as he can as the commander finally releases his grip, falling back to let the other escape from underneath him. The coughing continues as Cullen stares in horror.

“It’s already happening again… I can’t be... I’m losing my mind…”

“Listen to me, Cullen,” Isadore starts, a stern expression on her face. “You are not losing your mind. Everything is ok, you just have to — “

She reaches for his arm only to have him quickly yank it away, scrambling away to sprint off to his office before she can even collect herself again.

“What the hell was that!?” The scout manages through pained gasps. “What the hell is he?”

“We have to talk about this. Something very bad is happening and we need your help.”

“We?” the scout questions as Isadore helps him to his feet.

“Yes. I’m going to take you to the other advisers and I need you to tell them what you’ve just seen. Can you do that?”

“Y-yes, of course. What’s wrong with the commander?”

“We don’t know,” Isadore lies as she tugs the scout to follow her back to the main hall. “But that’s what we need you for. We need a testimony.”

“Why? What can I help?”

“If we’re going to out the commander, we need all the voices we can manage. Do you understand?”

“I — I suppose.”

“Good. We don’t have a lot of time before he tries something else.”

The Inquisitor escorts the scout to Josephine’s office, where she and the spymaster remained, less than patiently waiting for their return. They are, instead, surprised with the elf in company of someone other than Cullen.

“There was an incident on the bridge,” Isa starts, bringing the scout just before Josie’s desk. “An Incident with the commander. This scout here saw something you need to hear.”

“I was just… checking on the lady Inquisitor when he attacked me. Out of nowhere!”

“Cullen attacked you?” Leliana begins with actual concern in her voice.

“Let him continue,” Isadore interrupts, glancing at Leliana like she had at the other scout earlier.

“What happened exactly?”

“He pinned me to the ground! Had his hands around my throat and big fangs in my face! Some kind of animal, he is!”

“An animal? Why an animal?”

“Bastard had the eyes of a damned lion! Thought he was going to kill me for sure!”

“Why a lion and not a demon.”

“What?”

“ _ Why a lion, and not a demon. _ ” Isadore’s tone has changed. It’s angry again, no concern in her voice, no fear, just bitterness. You can almost hear her grit her teeth.

“I don’t understand what you’re — “

Isadore grabs the back of his head and slams it against the edge of Josephine’s desk.

“I said,  _ why a lion and not a demon?” _

Josephine has all but fallen out of her chair, Leliana inhaling in deep shock as she hardly understands what the Inquisitors just done.

“I kept thinking to myself, why does this keep happening? What in Thedas am I missing? Is the commander really losing his mind or is something else going on? And then I realized something; he’s got a stave so far up his damned ass he never would have allowed himself near any of us if he felt so out of control. Why did it keep happening in my presence, then? Well, I figured it out.”

“Inquisitor what is this?” Josephine draws a hand to her mouth in surprise, exclaiming her concerns to all of them.

“Have you guys ever heard of the Saprus flower? No? Of course not — because no one fucking uses it. Is that why you and your pals thought you could get it in here undetected, huh?” Isadore’s tossed the scout onto the floor and kicked him onto his back, her foot firmly planted on his throat. “When I was little, we were told very specifically never to touch it. I asked if it was poisonous. I was told yes, but only if you took many, many doses. Why were we to never touch it then? Because the smell of it rubs off on your skin and sticks to you for days. Maybe even weeks. And the funny thing about this flower is, it can irritate people’s noses and make them more violent,  _ but it drives animals wild _ . We were told to never touch it because, if we did,  **_we were basically challenging every predator that passed us by to a fight._ ** _ ” _

“They weren’t trying to kill us… the death was just a side effect. _ They were trying to turn all of us against each other. _ ”

“Exactly. That’s why I couldn’t figure out what kind of poison it was. Because it’s not really a poison in the traditional sense, is it?”

“This is madness — I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“I hate to break it to you, but Samson or Corypheus or whoever had you sign up as scouts to poison our food, they forgot to tell you that it wasn’t actually meant to kill us. That’s why you started delivering meals to me personally, isn’t it? Because I wasn’t dying quick enough?”

“You were made to be sacrificed,” Leliana puffs air out of her nostrils, her lips quirked into a scowl. “You didn’t know about the smell that would be left on your skin, did you?”

“You were set up. Whoever gave you this plan wanted Cullen to attack you so they could publicly out him and have him executed.”

“My, this sounds almost like a little bit of a revenge plot.”

“Oh, absolutely. And Cullen thought the smell was a threat to the Inquisition. That’s why he attacked those other scouts and _only_ those scouts. His instinct told him to protect us, and your evil magister friend was hoping we’d think he’d just lost his mind.”

“Not a horrible plan. Not a good one, either.”

“I don’t even know what you’re going on about — you can’t accuse me of anything like this!”

“Why were you following me? Why were you eavesdropping on my argument with Cullen?”

“I wasn’t!”

“And why were your friends names simply lost from the register? Why would you need to cover that up?”

“I have nothing to do with missing papers!”

“So if we search your things, we’re not going to find any flowers? And we’re also not going to find any sort of potions you could easily slip into our food as you delivered it to our rooms? And I bet none of the soldiers will recognize you handing out rations either?”

The scout falls silent. Or, really, she shouldn’t even be calling him a scout, since it’s clear he’s otherwise.

“That’s why I never got sick,” Leliana starts. “I retrieve my own food.”

“And I often eat with the nobles and have food brought by the cook himself.”

“I think we’ve made our case. It’s so strange to think that the actual traitors would literally bring themselves forward. You should have known better than to follow the word of an evil man — If you’ve got any more friends in my ranks, I’d tell me now. Or maybe we’ll just let the commander track you down again.”

 

* * *

 

Isadore was proud of herself. And yet she’d never felt such a heavy weight on her chest before in her life. 

Everyone was safe, they’d outed a group of traitors, and they’d discovered the truth behind it all.

And yet, that doesn’t take away what had happened.

She’d tried to kill Cullen. He hurt her on accident because she was protecting a conspirator, and she’d tried to tear his throat out. On the inside, she knows she can’t blame herself. He was hurting people and she didn’t know any better — she thought she had to stop him.

Still… he didn’t know it, but he was just trying to protect them. And she took an arrow, and drove it into his throat.

But he needed to know what had really happened. He needed to know that he hadn’t just lost control and killed people like a beast. He needed to know that he’d saved all of their lives. It probably wasn’t a conscious decision, but it still happened. If he’d never attacked those scouts, Isadore would very likely be dead right now and they never would have known the truth.

“Locking your doors is no defense if you continue to leave this giant hole in your wall.” Isadore had taken the same route into his room as the night she first saw him. Part of her wants to believe he did that on purpose — left the hole — so that only she could get in if she chose.

Cullen doesn’t answer her. He doesn’t answer her because he can’t answer her; instead of a man, he’s a giant heap of fur and muscle that looks much smaller than it really is because he’s curled up on the floor like a mess.

“What were you going to do? Run away? Or were you going to stroll down there like this and let them kill you?”

He doesn’t look at her, but she can see his eyes are a big and glassy. He’d been crying, probably had a panic attack or two, and his entire body had just… given out. Right there. He’d kind of lost the will to exist. 

She knew that feeling.

“I’m here because I… I owe you an apology. And because keeping the truth from you is clearly not beneficial to anyone.”

She sits down by his side and brushes her fingers through the remnants of his mane, which had only partially begun to grow back. The motion elicits a small, sad whimper on his behalf. Every time she thought she’d seen him look sad could not compare to what he was now.

If she’d seen him like this sooner, she would have known he’d never hurt any of them.

Laying her head on his side, she exhales, one hand still gently tracing the back of his neck and shoulders. “It’s probably for the best you can’t argue with me right now. I have a lot to tell you and no energy to answer questions.”

The lion blinks slowly, not changing position. He was collapsed beside his bed with half the sheets pulled off the mattress and pillows scattered beneath him and across the floor. She’d say his room looked like a mess if she wasn’t so used to the half destroyed ceiling and the wood tossed haphazardly in the corner.

“But this is very important so I’ll be very specific… I have some good news for you, commander.” 


	14. Je t'assure que ce n'est pas grave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, this is another transition chapter that took forever bc we're entering a new arc and tbh i did Not expect this fic to go so far lmao.

A warm light is shining in front of her, but it remains hazy and speckled with flecks of dust. Her eyes are only half open, and none of the light filters in upon her face, but she wasn’t particularly cold, so she enjoyed the sight of it nonetheless.

The light was coming in at an odd angle, as if from below. After several blinks, she realizes that’s not the lights fault, but merely a result of how she’s lying, which is on her side.  

She’d fallen asleep. When had she fallen asleep? And was she really so exhausted that she slept through the entirety of the night without stirring at all?

She’s slept on uncomfortable surfaces before, so she’s not unused to waking up aching, but this was a different sort of ache. She felt  _ stiff _ , as if she’d been laying in the same position for the entire night and her whole body had fallen numb. At least someone had left a pillow under her head and a blanket tossed over her body. Except, why is this blanket so heavy and hardly covers her at all?

She reaches down rather haphazardly to pull the blanket away only to have her heart rocket into her throat.

Ah. That’s not a blanket.

Cullen shifts slightly at her movement, but doesn’t stir completely. She’d fallen asleep on her side and apparently he’d fallen asleep in the same manner. Except behind her. With his arms around her waist.

Oh boy, oh boy.

At some point in the night, apparently he’d reverted back to human form, which was absolutely zero comfort to Isadore. The crown of her head is resting on his collar, as he’d curled up around her while they slept, and she could feel, rather distinctly, his skin against her bare arms.

She feels the fall and rise of his chest as he breathes… in and out… slowly and gently. A breath doesn’t escape her throat.

It occurred to her then that some strange cocktail of emotions had welled up inside her. Yet the most prevalent one, and the one she can hardly rationalize to herself, is fear. Why is she scared? Why had her entire body remained stiff and unmoving for the duration of the night? She didn’t give a shit when she’d laid on him before — it had meant nothing to her.

It’s some consolation to Cullen that she does not care if he isn’t human, she knows that at least. But as it would appear, after all the ordeals of the last few weeks, she’s actually sort of forgotten that just because he’s not human doesn’t mean he’s not still a man and _ oh my creators _ he’s literally naked, pressed against her, and she has to resist every urge in her body to throw him off her and punch him in the throat.

Isadore does not like to be touched; not by men, not by women, not by anyone she hasn’t given her express permission to. Which she rarely does; the hands that have grabbed her ruined it for everyone. And now there’s there’s a man hugging her from behind and her heart wants to crawl out of her chest (and also punch him in the throat).

Cautiously, she attempts to wiggle out of his hold and make a run for it. Why the caution? If he woke up, he’d apologize profusely; he would never intrude on someone else’s space like that consciously.

She just didn’t want to deal with it. She didn’t want to deal with his apologies and his face flushing red and the already awkward situation taking a nosedive into a whole other mess of emotions. Because if it wasn’t blatantly apparent already, she can tolerate about five minutes of serious emotional consideration before her stomach starts turning and she wants to fight.

She wondered if he had nightmares. That’s what she did when she was small: unconsciously cling to the person nearest to her when a storm rolled in or she dreamt of men coming to burn her and her people alive.

But that was childish. She clings to nothing now, not even the sheets, not even when she closes her eyes and she sees the fade and she sees him and nothing feels right.

Crawling out from his hold, the only reason she can imagine he doesn’t wake up from her movement is because he’s so damned tired he could have slept through another breach opening. Her weight is carefully distributed onto the floor; she knows how to move silently and keep her balance in tact.

Why didn’t she wake up the moment he’d held her? She’s not a light sleeper, but she would have felt his touch and unconsciously broken his arm anyway because she’s had people grab her in her sleep before and she’s done exactly that; she’s practically trained herself to still be in combat even when her eyes are shut.

But she didn’t wake up. Standing up fully, she glances down at him despite her effort to escape as quickly as possible.

The wounds are still plainly visible on his skin, scabbing over and scarring. It looks like they’d tried to sew the cuts shut, but his changing body size probably made that more difficult than anything. And then there’s the still blatant gash practically shouting at her from his throat that would probably continue to do so for as long as she was Inquisitor.

But he still looks… better. Maybe it’s just because he’s so far deep into sleep that his face is forced to relax, and maybe it’s just the golden glow of the light dripping faintly onto his skin, but he has never looked less tired to her. The creases beside his eyes and lips had softened and he couldn’t furrow his brow for once. She even takes a moment to think about that big, echoing roar he’d pulled out the other day and she finds herself trying and failing to match it to his now sleeping form. He’s just… calm.

Her hands raise to rub her arms, almost as if she was clutching her own body. She had to stop thinking about it, but she’s torn. It was unintentional so she can’t even be upset with him, but she still feels bad that she could consider getting upset at all. And it’s not as if she’s even mad that someone would touch her without her permission, it’s just the fact that they were technically sleeping together and it wasn’t just someone, it was  _ him _ .

She shakes her head and exhales silently. There was no reason to be so hung up on this. Nothing means anything. What did she expect when she came here last night? Did she expect to somehow wake up in her own bed this morning? Creators, why is she making this so much more complicated than it actually needs to be?

Walking quietly to the ladder she wonders again if he has nightmares. She has them, she knows she does. But she’s learned to internalize them so you’d never know.

And yet, last night, for the first time in a long while, she had not dreamt of anything that could hurt her.

 

* * *

 

“You have a statement prepared? It can be brief, but we have gathered the nobles before the throne so you are expected to prove something.” 

“Relax, Josephine. Or would you rather write the inquisitor a script?”

Leliana had tossed a small smirk at Josie, but it was apparent that the diplomat would not rest either way.

Isadore and the advisers had spoken about this meeting the day prior. It would be required of her to make an announcement to the court about exactly what had happened with the poison situation and the attack of the monster. And while she knew exactly what she planned to say, the whole situation seemed so unreal and far off that she couldn’t quite decide what sort of tone she was expected to take.

There is someone to clearly put the blame on, and she will, but it’s also apparent that she’s going to lose some stake in the game today.

“I know what I’m going to say, Josephine. It’s alright. I’ll keep it short and while I’m not a prodigy of public speaking, I can form a few coherent sentences at least.”

Isa is only teasing her, but Josephine pouts nonetheless. No one had called the inquisitor’s competence into question (which, really, they should at this point because she’s still a moron), it’s just that Josie is the one who’ll have the most fallout to deal with after everything's said and done. The elf does not envy her position as diplomat.

“Either way, this conference will be incredibly important. If we can’t win back their trust, our trip to the Winter Palace will only be that much more… difficult.”

Their discovery of the traitors had come at an opportune time: had the mystery gone on longer, it would have significantly hurt their endeavors in Halamshiral since they intended to leave not two mornings from now. At least now they can, hopefully, prove to the people that they are not only trustworthy and competent, but capable at crushing threats internally. And it wouldn’t hurt to show off that their Inquisitor is so damned stubborn that  _ lethal doses of a poison weren’t able to kill her. _

“I assume the Inquisitor hasn’t spoken yet.” And then there’s Cullen, fashionably late.

She had done her best to forget this morning. But it was hard to even glance at him without thinking about his arms around her; she has to mentally remind herself not to rub at her arms again lest someone notice she’s uncomfortable. It’s fortuitous that she’s so excellent an actor.

“I shouldn’t be, but I am still surprised you managed to sleep in, commander.”

At first, no one spoke. Isadore had explained where he’d run off to and how she’d told him the full truth of things when she’d first come to Josephine’s desk, so they expected him to make an appearance sooner or later, but he was still so blatantly close to an anxiety attack he might have been better staying in his room (of course, they’d sent a scout to fetch him, but if she were in his position, she also would have taken her time).

But Leliana had addressed him first, and with a tease nonetheless, making the situation almost feel like it had been before this debacle. No one would look at him the same for a long time, but the fact that he was still generally regarded by them as a hero sort of balanced out the fact that he’d savagely murdered a few people. Of course they deserved it, but that doesn’t make it less awkward.

In time, the rift would heal. They would all discuss things openly once again and Cullen would be able to look the other advisers in the eye instead of at the wall behind them. But for now, they were all allowed to be wary.

“And to think I’m still exhausted.” And that’s Cullen’s attempt at a clever retort. He’s back in his armor and the familiarity eases some of the tension. Furthermore, the mantle and collar of his breastplate effectively hide the wound on his neck, so at least Isadore would not have to have that staring at her.

“We’ve all been through an ordeal,” Josie adds. “After this is dealt with, all of us will be allowed a moment's rest.”

“Except Josephine, of course, who will continue working herself into a mess.” Josie frowns and Leliana’s comment. “What would we do without our hardworking ambassador?”

“You wouldn’t know when it’s time to make an appearance,” Josephine pouts, grabbing her quill and tablet before making her way to the door. “We will stand at your side Inquisitor, but the people are waiting.”

With that word, all of them proceed towards the main hall. Except, before she can get through the door, Cullen’s put a hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll be brief, but I need to speak with you before you go up.”

Isadore doesn’t flinch no matter how hard she wants to. It’s just the two of them, quietly making eye contact and he already looks so much more tired than he had when she left this morning.

Is that what he wants to talk about? Why she disappeared this morning? Had he woken up after all and she just didn’t notice? Creators, that is the last thing she wants to talk about.

“What is it?”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about this,” he sighs, hands dropped to the side, head dipped forward for a moment before he picks it up again. His eyes are sad. “When you tell the court the truth, I will stand for my crimes. I know what you told me and I can accept that I somehow saved lives but… that doesn’t mean those men didn’t deserve a trial. I will not shy from the judgement of the people and if they want me removed from the position of commander, I will not fight their decision.”

Isadore raises an eyebrow at him. Does he have some kind of death wish? She hadn’t pegged him for a masochist, and yet here he is, trying to get himself in trouble. “Like you said, commander, you saved lives.”

“Yes but it’s… the principle of it. They’ll see me as still having the potential to harm them. And the fact that I hid it from them in the first only makes me sound that much worse.”

“The Inquisition has accepted an apostate, a spirit, a tevinter mage, a rebel elf, and a mercenary band led by a Qunari. Why do you fear these people so much?”

“I don’t fear them—”

“You do, Cullen. You’re still scared of what everyone thinks of you. I know the feeling. You need to be comfortable with yourself before you start begging for retribution for simply existing.”

He falls silent, swallowing slowly with an odd, not offended nor upset but still troubled expression on his face.

“Come on, we have people waiting for us.”

She is harsh with him for more than one reason. And to be fair, she’s not even that particularly harsh; she is known to pull much stronger words out of her vocabulary than that. But after this morning and the past few weeks, she is eager to see this entire mess over and done with. She’s just so tired.

Walking into the main hall, she catches up to the other advisers who now took their place on the steps to the throne. They would stand to the side before her as she spoke. But sitting in a fancy chair meant nothing; she stands as tall as a five foot elf can in front of the seat, shoulders strong and wide with her head tilted just slightly upwards.

“Inquisition,” Isadore starts. Her voice is strong but not overbearing, only a slight echo against the massive corridor. So many people looked back at her. Surely it wasn’t even a fraction of their full numbers, but there was still more than a few handfuls of scouts, nobles, soldiers and, of course, almost all her companions. “Though many of you were unaware, yesterday we proved that we are far too stubborn to ever be destroyed by the treachery and malignance of those that stand to hurt us. Yesterday, in one fell swoop, we uncovered traitors in our ranks and ended a conspiracy.”

The crowd is talking. Not an uproar, but there is an audible murmur. There’s even a distinct aura of fear amongst them, and rightly so. She’s confidant her words can sway the masses, but the very idea of traitors in the ranks is enough to send most people into a frenzy of paranoia and uncertainty.

Now it’s time for her to do what she’s good at. It’s time for her to bend the truth.

“These traitors sought to poison us, sought to destroy us from the inside. Little did they know, we were on to them from the beginning, waiting for the opportunity to confirm our enemies. This is what that animal was doing here.”

She glances at Cullen’s back as his shoulders tense. He’s just waiting to take the stand and face his judgement. The people would understand eventually, for sure, but that doesn’t mean they’d support him. She’s almost certain while few will call for his death, a large portion of them would demand his resignation.

“The traitors were using a type of poison in our food to make us sick. But the poison came from a flower with a smell distinct to animals. That’s why the lion that attacked Skyhold killed those scouts: they were carrying the poisoned flower and it opted to remove the threat. Unfortunately, this flower also tends to make animals violent, which is why we’d wrongly assumed it’d lost control.”

And now it’s time to do what she’s even better at. It’s time for her to flat out lie.

“When our small, covert team discovered the poison, it was my idea to bring in the lion to track down the source. That is how it got into Skyhold. Soldiers had been hurt irreparably and we refused to let any more good people be sickened by this heinous attack. The animal is completely tame and I am well versed in using animals for tracking. I had no idea that it’d attack like it did, and for the fear that caused I will apologize.

But I will  _ not  _ apologize for my decision. Because of that animal, we swiftly crushed an internal threat with no one else ending up injured. It has since been released far away from here, so it physically cannot return, and all the traitors not killed have been apprehended.”

Isadore doesn’t look at Cullen and he doesn’t look at her. She can’t see his face, but she knows she doesn’t want to. He wanted to be reprimanded for what he’d done and she wouldn’t allow it.

“Spies and traitors will not be tolerated. We are an outstanding mass of people who will not back down and will not take treachery lightly. We will crush opposition no matter how careful and inconspicuous they think they are. This should be taken as a warning to anyone who seeks to hurt the good people of Thedas fighting for justice: if you come for our lives, we’ll show you our teeth. If you doubt our abilities, we probably already have you cornered. And if you threaten our right to exist,  _ we will show you that death is not the only presence to fear.” _

Isadore’s tone had slowly grown more and more enthusiastic as she listed off her threats. And when she’s done, the people have finally reached the uproar that they clearly wanted to fall into sooner. Half of it is cheers, fists thrust in the air as they agree vehemently with her words; they would not be cowards and they would find the justice for the men and women before them. That’s what they’re here for: to make a positive change and rid another evil entity from this world.

But the elf can still hear, through the cheers, the murmurs and whispers of concern. Traitors in the ranks? What if more come? And why would the inquisitor think to bring a vicious animal like that here? Why not just get a hound? Not something that had the potential to bring them so much danger?

Some people would have more faith in them now. The Inquisition rooting out a conspiracy and dealing with it in one easy motion? It was almost inspiring how effective and competent they were. But on the other hand, how could this have happened in the first place? How could they have so easily allowed for spies? And what about the soldiers that had died? Were they really beyond saving or did the Inquisitor just fail at protecting them?

Isadore couldn’t sway them all. In time, they would overshadow this ordeal with other, greater accomplishments. And when anyone questioned about this day, they would speak of it confidently as if it were a badge of honor.

Cullen grabs Isa’s arm as she walks past, crowd still in a roar and probably wishing she’d say more. She doesn’t look at him, simply shrugs him away.

“It’s easier for them to mistrust me,” she mutters, still walking. “We need to stay united. The Inquisition needs its commander.”


	15. You Can Let me Worry About You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

Isadore does not like politics. Aside from Josephine, she has never enjoyed the company of diplomats, she does not like to bend to the will of politicians, and she’d sooner spit on a rich man than bow to him. 

And yet, Isadore can play the grand Game better than half the Inquisition.

She is a liar and a thief; tricking people into thinking she’s sincere has always been a skill of hers. She treats the Game as exactly that: a  _ game  _ that she has no intention of losing.

If it wasn’t apparent, Isadore does not like losing.

She’ll have to be on especially good behavior at the Winter Palace regardless; it’s going to take some impressive acting to dig herself out of the scandal she accused herself of in the first place. There’d been plenty of discussion about her questionable handling of the intruders situation, and the cynical nobles had all but leapt on the opportunity to brand her a savage once again; her solution had been to bring a wild animal in, after all.

Except it wasn’t her idea. She did it to cover for Cullen, who still very blatantly couldn’t understand why. But now he has no choice but to go along with the lie because if he contends, that’ll bring about an even greater scandal.

Isadore was done with it all. The last thing she wants to do is force a pleasant disposition so she can suck up to a crowd of pompous, gold-toting, ass masks. And yet, that’s exactly what she has to do.

Early the other morning, after Skyhold had been allowed barely two days to exchange banter and gossip about everything that’d happened, the Inquisition had to begin it’s trek to Orlais, and absolutely everyone was dreading it (especially Josephine, who very well may be the only person that can negotiate their way out of this mess).

Of course it’s not the entirety of the Inquisition, but it’s still a sizable display of power. Their caravan is accompanied by soldiers and honor guard who brandish the banner of the Inquisition proudly, as well as a notable group of nobles (the ones that didn’t accuse her of being incompetent) and all of her companions and advisers.

To her, it felt unnecessary. Why so many soldiers for what needed to be a stealth operation? Of course they feared for the life of the empress, but how exactly did they expect to get the troops into the palace in the first place?

That was Cullen’s responsibility. It was her job to make the court think she’s a perfectly respectful young lady with a good head on her shoulders (both of which are statements that would make the clan back home laugh).

At least there was some peace amongst these long travels. Their maps indicated they were a small ways from a town, but it was hardly time to start thinking about bunking down for the night. If it was up to Isa, she’d travel on through the night, but the men deserve their rest and, at this point, she wouldn’t contend it either.

“Inquisitor. Sorry to trouble you, but we’ll be stopping at this upcoming settlement.”

“What for?” She questions the scout that’s come to report to her. “Sun won’t set for a long while. We could easily make it through two more settlements before needing to stop.”

“Storm coming. Appeasing our accompanying noblemen will be easier if we don’t get them caught up in the weather.”

A storm? Isadore looks up at the sky and finds only white clouds and a deep blue sky. Why were they stopping for a storm? And then she thinks about it.

“Is this a directive from the commander?” she questions, already aware of the answer.

“Yes, my lady.”

Of course. What with his animal senses, he’d probably feel the storm creeping up on them long before a grey cloud even came into sight. She’s not at all surprised.

“Forward scouts indicate an inn in this town. The advisers say we’ll find accommodation there.”

“...Alright. Understood.”

 

 

* * *

 

_ Cullen didn’t understand why he would be any different. The other kids seemed… perfectly fine, perfectly  _ **_normal_ ** _ ; he’d never heard about any of them locking themselves in their rooms, hiding from loud noises, being generally scared to go outside.  _

_ Or maybe they did. Maybe they were all going through the same thing, and he was just the only one too weak to properly cope with it. _

_ He’s crying in his room again. That’s all he’s done every other night for the past few weeks. His head is pressed to his sheets with one hand over each ear; there was a storm gearing up outside and if his hands weren’t occupied, they’d be clasped together in prayer. _

_ His mother would pray for him instead. She gently brushes the hair from his face, seated beside him with only hushed whispers to try and ease his suffering. _

_ “It’ll pass soon,” she offers, feeling helpless as she looks on at his small, shaking body. How could she ever let her son be in so much pain? And how could she sit here and watch him writhe and still think selfishly of what she’d do if she lost him to the plains? _

_ She wants him to be happy, that’s all a mother can wish for. And she and her husband intended fully to tell him the truth of his heritage when he was grown enough, but still, what would she do if he decided to leave? What if everything they’d done to raise him as a good, human boy was for nothing? He wasn’t even her blood, but losing him would hurt the same as losing any of her own. _

_ “Mama, I don’t want it to come back,” he manages to say with a trembling lower lip. “I’m scared.” _

_ “I know, baby. It’s just a storm. It can’t hurt you.” _

_ “I’m not scared of the storm...” _

_ “What are you afraid of then? I promise I’ll make sure whatever it is never hurts you either.” _

_ “I don’t want it to come back. I wanna stay me, mama. I don’t wanna go anywhere.” _

_ “You’re not going anywhere, I promise. You’ll stay here and you’ll be safe.” _

_ Cullen is silent for a time. Not really silent, so much as he is without words. His muffled crying is still very much prevalent, but he can’t seem to form a coherent sentence otherwise. _

_ “Are other people like this? Are the other kids? Is it just me? What’s wrong with me?” _

_ "There’s nothing wrong with you,” she hushes, almost on the verge of tears herself. What can she tell him? Nothing will make this better; she’s just doing her best with what little understanding she had. “You were made exactly as you were meant to be.” _

_ “Why was I made to hurt?” _

_ His real parents would have known what to do. He would never have to grow up afraid of who he is; he would never be scared or lonely or in so much pain because he just wants to be like everyone else. _

_ Would he be happier if they’d never taken him in? _

_ "Sometimes… things hurt. Everyone has to deal with change. But you’re so strong and this will pass. I know that means nothing now, but you’re going to grow up so tough, I promise. And we’re going to love you through all of it. That will never change.” _

 

* * *

 

 

For the first time in a long while, Isadore wasn’t particularly fascinated with the tavern scene. She enjoyed the company and the laughter of her companions, she just didn’t feel the same nagging desire to drink and forget. It could be an upset stomach, it could just be that she’s tired, but it could also very well be the fact that she can’t stop thinking about Cullen. 

How pathetic to have her attention so focused on a man.

The tavern in this town doubles as the inn, so while the whole first floor is dedicated to merriment loud enough to mask the storm outside, the Inquisition had all but horded the rooms above. Well, the nobles and the inner circle, anyway. It was a shame for the soldiers, but they remained with the caravan.

But the moment they’d settled in at the bar, the commander had all but disappeared. Even Leliana slipped from the shadows at times to survey the chatter, but no one had heard a word from Cullen since they’d decided to bunker down in the first place.

And while Varric tells a story and Bull nearly snorts a pint of ale out through his nose, Isadore is smiling even though she’s hardly listening. She’s happy with them. Well, not happy, but content. After everything they’ve been through and all the chaos that has ensued in the past weeks, she needed to feel like everything's going ok for once in her life.

And yet, she’s still thinking about how she knows  _ exactly  _ why Cullen disappeared on them all; the storm brewing up outside was bound to make a mess of things, and if a dog gets anxious when it thunders, she can’t imagine the commander with all his nervous habits is any less a wreck at the moment.

That, and he was probably eager to be alone anyway. Sure, very few even knew of what he’d done and everything that’d happened behind the scenes, but still — to him, it likely felt like somehow everyone knew and they were all just silently judging him with every glance.

It wasn’t true. And even if he had come clean to everyone, she knew that half of them would probably thank him for what he’d done. That wouldn’t stop his self-deprecating ass from hating himself either way.

She decides, then, to go check on him. At the very least, she’d like to invite him down to share a drink. Maybe company would soothe his nerves. She doubted it, but her head was still swimming and she couldn’t imagine leaving him alone after all that’s happened.

Excusing herself from the clamor of the bar, she sneaks off to the back hall to access the stairs. All the rooms were upstairs, and she’d quickly find Cullen’s if she simply searched for the only room with candle light filtering out from under the door.

“You really needn’t come check on me, Inquisitor.”

Isadore should have known he’d hear her coming before she even opened the door; she has to wonder how distinct her smell is compared to everything else in this place.

“You were brief earlier. No one’s heard a word from you since we got here,” she answers without pause, passing through the threshold before closing the door behind her. “You should know someone would have to check on you sooner or later.”

“What’s the worry for?” He’s sitting on a small bed, candle lit at the bedside with a spread of papers lying on the sheets before him. Besides the fact that he’s completely out of armor and uniform, it’s also sort of strange to see him sitting cross legged with a few sparse hairs falling out of his tightly kept hair style.

“The commander holes himself in his quarters without a word?”

“It’s not particularly unusual for me.” He’s blatantly dodging her now; not for a moment does his attention lift from the documents in front of him to make eye contact with her. To be honest, she’s not particularly surprised. “Weren’t you with the others in the tavern? You shouldn’t have left on my accord.”

“I didn’t. I wasn’t in the partying mood, particularly. Thought it a shame you’re the only one not enjoying the company.”

“Storm,” he replies shortly without even looking up, just gesturing vaguely to the other side of the room with the back of his hand. “Makes me jumpy. Figured I’d get some work done rather than embarrass myself.”

“And your incessant need for isolation has nothing to do with it, of course.”

“It may come as a surprise to you, but I don’t particularly enjoy being alone all the time.”

“Well you certainly don’t make many attempts to engage with people.”

“I’m sorry, have I done something to incur these accusations against my character? Your attempts at pity aren’t particularly apt.”

Isadore pauses, upper lip twitching for a moment. It isn’t a scowl that stretched across her face — it isn’t even any sort of anger. For once, she’s actually trying to be careful with someone else’s feelings.

“You’re mad at me because of what I did — because I covered for you and you don’t think I should have, right?”

“I’m not mad at you for anything.”

“You are. You’re mad because you were finally going to be reprimanded for what you’d done and I took that punishment away from you. You’re a law abiding, morally upright masochist, Cullen. You wanted the tension and the fear of everyone finding out to just go away..”

“You’re wrong.” For the first time this entire conversation, he looks up at her, only a slight furrow etched into his brow. He purses his lips and swallows sharply, taking a long deep breath before he even attempt to explain. “You shouldn’t have covered for me. Now we have angry nobles contending your competence when it would have been much easier to simply dismiss me and instate a new commander.”

“You keep behaving as if I’m so much more important than you. Don’t you think that… it’s better to have all your cogs still working though a little damaged rather than all cogs working perfectly except for one that’s missing entirely?”

“I’m not irreplaceable. You are.”

“No one is replaceable, commander.”

“So you covered for me because you didn’t want to find a new commander?”

“Partially, yes. And why wouldn’t I want to keep you as commander? You’re incredible at what you do, Cullen. We need you.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, obviously caught up in his own thoughts. She wasn’t just trying to make him feel better, honestly — she was being serious. He was an amazing man, so much so that even when he’d seemingly lost control of his mind, he’d still risked his life to protect his people. She’d been angry at what he’d done for so long that when she finally realized what his actions actually meant, it felt like someone had hit her in the face.

“Partially? Then what else? What else made you decide it was better to take the fall than to let the responsible man face the consequences?”

“You shouldn’t be forced to reveal something like that about yourself.”

“Weren’t you the one to tell me I should come clean —” 

“ — And I stand by that. But it should be your choice. It should be because you made the decision to let people know who you are. It shouldn’t be because… because you were put on trial and forced to reveal something you haven’t even accepted about yourself.”

“So it boils down to you trying to spare my feelings?” he half scoffs with a roll of the eyes. Now he’s just being childish.

“Is it so terribly difficult to believe that someone out there actually cares about you?”

“What?”

Isadore blinks a few times before looking across the room. Those weren’t the words she meant to have come out of her mouth, but they are now the words lingering in the air for a long while after. She takes a few steps forward so she’s standing at his bedside while he averts his eyes back down to the papers before him.  

“Your… need to hate yourself, your anger and loathing and…  just the way you always want to be punished for something you’ve done — you punish yourself plenty for your own actions. Have you ever stopped to wonder if your constant need to be treated like a monster has an effect on any one else? When people continuously try and help you but you refuse because you feel undeserving… you make people feel like they’re not good enough. And I understand. I’ve done the exact same thing to people. But you’re allowed to have friends, Cullen. You’re allowed to be happy.”

He’s silent for a long time after that, the walls vaguely shaking from the low rumble of thunder far off in the distance. It was strange of her to be so blatant with him, let alone, but after all she’d said and done to him, she felt he deserved some optimism.

“Why are you really up here, Isadore?” he finally musters, tilting his head up again.

“I was worried about you,” she admits, folded arms dropping to her sides. “I… worry a lot about all of you. I know it might not feel like that sometimes but… you’re my family now. And I don’t want to see anything bad happen to you.”

Then he decides to do something she hadn’t expected: he  _ laughs _ .

It’s short and muffled, but it’s still distinctly his — that little chuckle that didn’t come deep in his throat but came directly from his mouth and nose, with a quick flare of the nostrils and an upwards quirk of the corners of his lips. She would have smiled back just at the sight of it, but she had no idea where it came from.

“Inquisitor, how can you call me matronly when you’re the one who seems to have adopted the entire Inquisition?”

“W-what?”

“When we played chess,” he rubs the back of his neck, still with a smirk on his face. “You called me matronly and doting. But you’ve hardly seemed to notice it in yourself.”

“I — I am terribly far from matronly, I can assure you.”

“And yet here you are, like a worried parent coming to check on your son.”

“This is — this is nothing of the sort,” she waves her hands in front of her face, shaking her head sharply. “I am nothing like a mother.”

“If not that, then what?”

“You’re my friend… my colleague… my...” she trails off, at a loss for words. What else is he to her?

“You pride yourself on being stoic and tough and hardened, but you’re sweet. I think I always knew it.”

“I am not even remotely sweet,” she huffs back. “Don’t you dare start spreading rumors otherwise.”

After her last word, there’s a clap of thunder outside that makes Cullen’s whole body tighten up and his lungs nearly hop out of his throat. The moment passes just as soon as it’d begun, but the elf’s face has already switched to concern when he’s swallowing back down the sudden fright in his chest.

“Then... what’s that look on your face for?” he continues, still bringing together a crooked smirk after he’s settled back into his skin.

“Am I — am I not allowed to be concerned? The weather is — it’s obviously making you uncomfortable — that doesn’t mean that I’m —”

“Isadore, I’m joking. Remember how that works?”

She pauses. He was, wasn’t he? But how the hell was he so — he’s so uptight and controlling there’s no way he’d — he’s actually cracking a joke? Shouldn’t he be brooding and angry and — she’s been pestering him about it forever and now he’s actually heeded her words? She expected him to grumpily chatter on about how this whole mess was his fault and how he didn’t deserve concern, and here he is making a joke?

“Where is Cullen Rutherford and what have you done with him?”

“Despite popular belief, I am physically capable of joking every now and then.”

“Commander, I’m shocked. I don’t believe it.”

“Am I truly so strict that no one can fathom me making a joke?”

“We all assumed you didn’t have it in you.”

“Well now I’m offended.”

Isadore smiles. She liked him better like this. To be honest, she never thought she’d actually see him  _ not  _ treating himself like shit. She’d always barked at him to be kinder to his own being, but… to see him actually comply for once is odd. She realizes that she really likes to see him happy.

“Look, Isa,” he continues after a brief refrain. His face is still soft but the smile has thinned into something else. Not any less happy, just more gentle. “What you did for me… I appreciate it. I do. I want to be held responsible for my actions but… you went out of your way to clear my name and protect me. It’s just… you pride yourself on being a loner but… you’re so impressively selfless I just… I was mad at myself to see you be treated so unfairly when you’d done nothing wrong. But you’re right when you say you can handle it better than I… still… you deserve to be happy too.”

Her throat closes up a little. Is that what people really think of her? Do people really not know how selfish and self-centered she is? That she was only guilted into helping him because she’d nearly murdered him in the first place? She wanted to be happy, of course — but she didn’t necessarily think she deserved to be.

Oh, creators, she’s such a hypocrite; she’s just putting herself down like he’s done to himself.

“I… wouldn’t go so far as to say all that,” she manages, brushing her bangs away from her cheek.

“I hate to see you talk so badly about yourself. You said it yourself; you call yourself awful things so no one else can. But I don’t believe any of it.”

“Well, you should believe  _ some  _ of it.”

“I don’t want to.”

Isadore frowns, attention flickering to the floor as she finds it difficult to meet his gaze. Now it was her turn to be bashful. “Cullen, that’s…”

Another strike of lightning draws the thunder in; it slams against the side of the room and shakes the wall with a deep rumble louder than the last. And in a breath, Cullen’s surprise had sent his hand to grab whatever was nearest to it, which just happened to be Isadore’s wrist.

Consciously, even in that brief second, she knew why he’d done it. He was shocked is all; the storm made him jumpy and a loud clap like that probably scared the shit out of him so he’d latched onto whatever was closest. Which happened to be her.

She punches him in the face.

“Oh — creators! I’m so sorry — I didn’t mean to do that — !” Isadore recoils; she’d socked him pretty good and he’d nearly fallen off the side of the bed in the process. “You surprised me and I just — “

There was the downside of training your body to always be ready for attack (and part of the reason why she hates when people touch her without permission). When someone grabs her so suddenly, even when their intentions were completely innocuous, her immediate reaction is to fucking destroy them.

Cullen grabbing her lit up that instinct and his face was the recipient of the punishment.

“It’s — it’s alright, inquisitor. I didn’t mean to — ah — I’m so sorry for startling you.” He’s rubbing his cheek now, raising his eyebrows as he tries to shake off the sting.

“Are you — you’re apologizing to me? Cullen I punched you in the face! I’m so sorry — that was just — “

“Really, it’s alright, you didn’t even — “

“ — Oh, creators, let me see. Come on, let me see your face.”

“It just stings a little it’s really alright.”

“Stop fussing — let me see — “

“ — Isa — “

“ — I just want to look at it — “

“ — Really it’s — “

She tugs his hand away from his cheek, her knees pressed against his bed as she leans in to see her own handiwork. She’d hit him right below the left eye and through the redness, she knew a bruise would develop plainly by the morning. His eye was even watering a little, the redness spreading to the white of his sclera.

_Good job Isadore! Even when you’re not trying to, you still hurt him!_

“It’s… you’re going to have a bruise. I’m so sorry Cullen — I can’t believe it just — “

“ — I scared you, it’s alright. I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that.”

“Would you stop apologizing? Oh, creators — I’m awful, I’m so sorry.”

“Isa, you’re not awful — look, I of all people know that sometimes, when you’re surprised, you just act on instinct. It’s really ok! Look, it doesn’t even hurt — look — I promise.”

She exhales, brow all scrunched up in disgust at her own actions. Why was she so damned prone to violence?

It’s only in the next breath that she realizes how close their faces are.

“See? It’s not that bad… doesn’t even hurt,” he insists, eyes slowly drifting up to meet hers. “If you… if you feel bad, I forgive you. Alright? I’ve been much crueler to you.”

“I guess we’re… I guess we’re even now,” she tries to laugh, but her expression remains still.

“I don’t think so… I still have a lot to make up for…”

He kisses her.

For a moment, she wasn’t entirely positive that that’s what is actually happening. Part of her thinks she’s imagining it; his lips are so soft and his movement so gentle that she assumed it couldn’t be real.

Because no man or woman has ever kissed her without grabbing her throat or tugging her wrists or trying to sneak a hand down her tunic. No one has ever kissed her and been so careful when holding the sides of her face, her chubby cheeks flush with color and heat. No one has ever kissed her without groaning or biting her lip or trying to get their tongue in her mouth.

He’s perfect.

He doesn’t flatten her nose with his face and he’s careful not to hit her with his own nose. He breathes carefully so he doesn’t scratch her chin with the rough of his stubble and there’s something so oddly comforting about how the scar on his upper lip matches her own.

“I… I’m sorry if that was sudden I just… that was really nice.” He blushes when he speaks, a soft and cheerful little smile on his face. Is he actually… happy? Is he smiling at her? Is he smiling because of her? “I think I’ve wanted to do that for a long time... “

He’s a breath away, and when he trails off again, his head tips to kiss her again.

It would have been perfect, she knows. He would have held her tenderly and made her feel safe, his fingers tangled up in her hair. He’s an uptight human with masochistic tendencies and yet he’s a perfect gentleman who would more than likely oblige kindly to anything she ever asked of him.

She tugs herself away and slides off his bed in one short gesture, her eyes wide and watery.

“Isadore, I’m — I’m so sorry I should have asked permission — I care about you so much I just… I shouldn’t have assumed you’d reciprocate — “

“Please don’t.”

“Please don’t what? I’m so sorry. If you don’t want to talk to me, I — “

“Cullen, just don’t.”

She turns around and leaves.

He loves her and she is physically and emotionally incapable of giving him everything in this world that he deserves. He’s in love with a parasite incapable of caring about him like he does for her. Even as a child, she’d told herself she’d never be intimate with another being — all her ‘lovers’ have been lies. Scams. People’s she’s conned. And now here’s a genuinely good person who has no interest in abusing her and who she has no interest in tearing apart — here’s him, kissing her like she’s worth more than just the clothes on her back.

She’d nearly killed him.

He was so worried about hurting her, he has no idea just how badly she’d hurt him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ᕕ( ಠ‿ಠ )ᕗ


	16. Girl I Adore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isadore's a terrible fucking person lmao (this update brought to you by: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TVdohqU59PU)

_ Her heart shattered in two. At least, that’s what it felt like. There was a loud, painful ringing and then her skin set fire. Not literally. But it felt literal enough. And there was definitely fire involved somewhere.  _

_ She was hurt vicariously through the life of another. The hole was gouged in her chest and suddenly everything was a bright, visceral green, but she couldn’t quite tell you where it had come from and she honestly didn’t care. _

_ The tether was severed. No matter how viciously she clung to that red string, it still snapped and she was lost on the other side of the abyss. Alone. In the blink of an eye. _

_ They may as well have taken her legs or her arms. They may as well have cut her down the middle and asked her to continue existing with only half her organs. That would have had about the same effect. _

_ Stubbornly, in her thick skull, the words still don’t feel real. Not even consciously could she process them because they were so absurd she had just as soon assumed she’d actually died. _

_ A shaky inhale, golden eyes wide and wild. _

_ “What do you mean there were no survivors?” _

 

* * *

 

 

Isadore had not spoken to Cullen since the night of the storm. Even when gathered with the advisers, she would not look at him, offer him any words, or stand in his general vicinity. 

Usually, she was impressively talented at skirting uncomfortable situations and appearing as if she doesn’t actually give a fuck, but, for once, she can’t hold that facade. And it’s fairly blatant that Cullen can’t either, so most of their discussions boil down to Josephine and Leliana staring with raised eyebrows while the Inquisitor and the commander refuse to speak after one another.

They were behaving like children, she knows, but she was still under the wild delusion that maybe, just maybe, if she ignores him long enough, he’ll go back to his own duties and forget that anything ever happened and she could do the same.

She actually preferred it when she was just chastising him in his room when he’d gotten himself hurt. She is very good at arguing. Dancing around a kiss that wasn’t unwarranted is a whole other game.

Now she’s in the middle of a field, firing off arrows at the distant treeline, pretending that this somehow helps.

The caravan had settled for the night into tents, their area posted in a large enough alcove some distance away from the nearest town. The sun had yet to set, but it lulled carefully above the horizon, a deep orange sprayed across the sky.

She would have surrounded herself with companions to ease the anxiety, but they only seemed to make things worse. Cullen’s kiss had, apparently, ruined her mood for any sort of association. She couldn’t even speak with Dorian or Blackwall… so much as passing conversation reminded her of the feeling that’d sent her running away from the commander in the first place. Suddenly, being near people she cares about makes her stomach upset.

“Inquisitor.”

“Commander.”

Isadore’s bow is taut, but she gently releases the string as she pulls her shoulders back and holds her head high. She’s carrying her stiffest and most dignified expression, but she has to wonder if he can smell right through her act.

“We’re far enough from the rest of the camp now. You’re free to yell at me without repercussion now.”

Is that what he thinks? That the only reason she hasn’t snapped at him is because she didn’t want the rest of the troops to hear her chew him out?

“Cullen, I don’t want to talk,” she stands firmly, looking off into the field and the small collection of trees in the distance. He could chalk it up to professionality all he wanted, she was still rather keen on never being alone with him again. At least for the next few years and he’s forgotten about her entirely because that is how she chooses to deal with situations like this.

“I know. I know you don’t,” he continues, obviously trying to sound sympathetic. “This isn’t particularly easy for me either. But I’m fairly certain everyone’s noticed your discomfort and if we can’t be civil with each other, that’s going to affect more than just you and I.”

Well, he tried his best at being sympathetic anyway.

“Look, I don’t know what you want from me but I’m not here to talk about my feelings — “

“Isa, I don’t  _ want  _ anything from you. Well I mean… I’m not prepared to force anything from you. But after what happened at the tavern I — “

“ — You want to talk about how I left? How I hurt your feelings? You were the one that took the risk, I can’t be — “

“Isadore, please!” He had snapped at her so suddenly that she was almost certain the words had come out of the mouth of someone else. Except there is no one else. It’s just her and him and the rest of the troops far out of earshot. “Listen, I don’t… I don’t regret kissing you. But that’s not what I care about right now. You clearly don’t… see me that way, and that’s alright. I’m not here to try and convince you to… fall in love with me, but I can’t sit back and pretend like I don’t care about you.”

“So will you continue your one sided pining like a child? Try and guilt me for what I’ve said and done?”

“You’re so thick, Inquisitor. You still don’t get it.”

Isadore stops. He has never been so blunt with her. There were exceptions, but most of them involved the fact that he was busy digging himself a hole of self pity. This is different. This has nothing to do with his own self hatred — he’s not deprecating  _ himself _ , he’s calling  _ her  _ out on her bullshit instead, which is something he rarely if ever feels compelled to do.

“What don’t I get, Cullen? Feel free to enlighten me.”

“When you left my room, you looked at me like I have never seen you look at anyone before. On the battlefield, you don’t flinch. You don’t get surprised. Even when you found me as a giant animal covered in blood, your face was still held together. When I kissed you and you pulled away, I expected you to be angry. But you weren’t. I have never seen you more terrified in my life.”

“What exactly are you trying to get out of me?”

“Please, at least let me be your friend. You don’t want to talk about it and I have no right to bring it up, but  _ someone hurt you _ .”

“So… you’re telling me that you have no right to bring it up and yet here you are? You’re going to accuse me so openly? How can you assume any of this?”

“Someone hurt you and I need to know what they did so I can never do it again.”

“What?”

“If you… never want me to touch you again, I won’t. If standing near you makes you uncomfortable, I won’t be near you. I won’t even look you in the eye. I won’t call you by name, I won’t have casual conversations with you — I won’t do anything that would upset you. But I need to know what that is so I can never do it.”

“You’re… joking, right?”

“Of course not. Whether you love me or not, I don’t care. I still want you to be happy. Every single time I dipped into my own pathetic self loathing, you were the one to talk me out of it. Why can’t I do the same for you? Why can’t I help you with whatever is very clearly still hurting you?”

He would never touch her again if she asked. He would never look her in the eye, stand near her, or speak to her outside a professional setting. He would never say her name again. All if she asked him to.

And the word ‘love’ does not completely fly over her head. It means something to her, it really does. But as a girl who has never been swept off her feet, never been courted, never courted anyone herself, never humored anyone besides leading them on — she isn’t exactly sure she knows what that word means when it comes to him.

She has loved many, but not like that. Never like that. Not even once.

And here’s this man accepting a one-sided relationship for the sake of her own safety. It wasn’t as if he was trying to play the ‘nice guy’, he was genuinely serious. He was adamant on never upsetting her ever again. And if that means never even looking at her, that is apparently a sacrifice he’s willing to make.

Why? She isn’t that important. No one has ever claimed romantic attraction to her before, and if they did, she can only assume they’d never risk more than a copper for her. And here he is saying he  _ literally won’t ever look at his boss again if she asks him to. _

“Cullen, I was the one that gouged your throat out.”

There’s an odd expression on his face, obviously because that was the absolute last thing he expected to come out of her mouth.

“I was the one that shot you in the chest, the rib cage twice, and then proceeded to shove an arrowhead into your neck repeatedly until Leliana made me stop. I would have killed you without a second thought, guaranteed.”

“...That was… you were protecting the Inquisition — “

“ — When I was twelve, I stabbed three men. They attacked someone very important to me while he was in town with the merchants, so I went back and stabbed three men in retribution. When I was fifteen, I got a shem drunk, stole half his coin, and when he caught me, I broke his arm in front of a crowd of people. When I was eight, I burned my hands throwing hot coals at someone who’d called me a name. At sixteen, a man strangled me so I knocked him unconscious for three weeks and — “

“ — Isadore, stop — ”

“ — I hurt people, Cullen. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at. And I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t be like that any more. And I still almost killed you and I still punched you for literally no reason. Even when I’m not trying to, people still get hurt. And I’m just so tired of it being people I care about.”

“I don’t understand. What are you trying to… what are you — “

“ —  _ I should not be Inquisitor _ . I am special because I’m the only one who didn’t die in a fiery explosion. I’m special because I lucked out. But I’m not special — I have a magical glowing scar on my hand and all I’ve excelled at thus far is getting people hurt or killed — “

“ — After all you’ve told me about self pity and loathing…  _ you’re really going to tell me you want nothing to do with me because you’re scared of hurting me? _ ”

Isadore bites her lip. Was that really it? That seemed the most obvious answer, even if it wasn’t all that obvious. To her, in that moment, it felt the most right, the answer that made the most sense. But he’s prying like he knows something she doesn’t.

Part of her is furious. But the rest of her is exactly what he’d seen the other night: terrified.

Terrified of what? Of him? No. Of herself? No. Then what? She is insulted to think she’d be scared of anything; fear isn’t in her repertoire. She’s not scared of dragons or templars or mages or evil magisters or even giant half lions covered in blood.

“Cullen, I’m…”

_ Tell him the truth. Just tell him the truth. The whole truth. Tell him about clan Lavellan and the Marches and the scar on you face. You’re not scared of anything so you shouldn’t care about what he thinks. _

She laughs.

“... I’m only half a person.”

Cullen doesn’t answer, His brow is knit together because, as she assumes, he has no idea what that even means. How exactly is he supposed to proceed when she gives him such nonsense to work with?

“Remember my report from Adamant?”

“You said that… you said you saw nothing at Adamant. So that was a lie?”

“It wasn’t a lie. I told you a hundred times that I saw nothing. I told everyone that I saw nothing. Because that’s what I saw! Nothing! I was alone! Completely alone! The demon didn’t even acknowledge my presence! He didn’t mock me, didn’t tease me — just completely ignored me! I was alone and all that did was give me time to think about how everyone important in my life has either died or left — how terrible and cruel and helpless I am on my own!”

“Isa… I adore you.”

She bursts into tears.

Obviously, Cullen is taken aback. The crying hadn’t started immediately after he’s spoken — there was a slight lull where her expression completely collapsed before hand — and he doesn’t immediately react when she’s dropped her bow and put her head in her hands.

“Don’t say that! Don’t say that to me!”

How could he say those words? Those specific words, just like that, like it’s something he’s always said and he thought nothing of it? How could he have decided to say those exact words right then?

_ Isa, girl I adore. _

“It — it’s true,” he insists after the brief shock has settled. “I don’t care if you hate yourself right now — you have done nothing but stand up for me and protect all of these people.”

“I almost killed you — “

“  _ — I killed four people _ .”

He wraps his arms around her, chin resting carefully atop her head. He has no idea, does he? No idea what he’s getting himself into — no idea what he’s asking from her. She hadn’t even told him the whole truth, there is so much more he doesn’t know.

And now he’s hushing her while her terrified brain reminds her of all the terrible things she’s done and all the reasons she doesn’t deserve this compassion.

She’d mocked his affections. She’d teased him and belittled him and generally been a shitty person to him. And all because she’s scared he’s going to leave her like everyone else. Better push him away before he realizes how deep in he is!

That’s fucking stupid. She’s fucking stupid. And he saw right through it. Part of her had hoped his intentions weren’t genuine and so she could argue this is somehow his fault. But it’s not. It’s not his fault. None of this is his fault. She’s the one that ran away.

“You don’t have to do this alone. I’m right here.”

 

* * *

 

 

_ Cullen dips his fingers into a shallow dish, cupping the water in his palms before splashing it carefully back in his face. For almost a split second, he felt less disgusting, rubbing the day's dirt and grime from the corners of his eyes.  _

_ He had not spoken to Isadore since the other night and, frankly, he had no intention to. She wanted nothing to do with him and he would oblige to that no matter what. Still, that look in her eyes when she left… he can’t stop thinking about it; it haunts him. _

_ So many times she’s left him with warning signs. She’s lost people, she regrets things she’s done; but she has yet to tell him about any of those people or what those things she regrets are. It’s her own personal business and he has no right to pry, but he can still wish she wasn’t so damned stubborn; she consistently poured her tough love on to him and it felt unfair that she wouldn’t let him do the same for her. _

_ “She wants someone to help her, but she won’t let anyone help her. I don’t understand.” _

_ The commander nearly knocks the bowl through the flaps of his tent with how quickly he whips around. It was well after the sun had set and his soldiers knew better than to just walk into his quarters without so much as a warning or a proper introduction. _

_ But, of course, Cole doesn’t necessarily follow the same manner of decorum; Isadore held some fondness for the spirit and was the most gentle with him of all people, but Cullen would absolutely never get used to that ‘appearing out of nowhere’ routine he’s so keen about. _

_ “Maker’s breath,” Cullen puts a hand to his chest, one covered only with a simple and loosely fit top. He’d just about had a heart attack. “I’m absolutely positive people have commented on how impolite it can be to simply appear in someone’s room.” _

_ “I’m sorry. I’ve never appeared with a knife, though.” _

_ Cullen raises an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?” _

_ “I don’t understand the inquisitor.” _

_ “I’ll add you to the list, then.” _

_ “List?” _

_ “...Never mind.” _

_ “She wants to be forgiven but she’s worried that if she is, she won’t be a good person anymore.” _

_ “Forgiven for what?” _

_ “A lot.” When Cole responds, he’s gestures to Cullen softly before clasping his hands together again, picking at the skin around his thumb nails. He can’t seem to stand still. _

_ “Well I can’t even forgive her if I don’t know what’s wrong.” _

_ “Have you asked?” _

_ “What?” _

_ “Have you asked her? She contradicts herself. Like both sides of a coin at the same time. A flash of green, not envy but greed — so sad to take but so sad to leave. She whispers her pain to others all the time, but only when they don’t ask. Only when they feel their own hurt. I do my best to help her but I don’t understand.” _

_ “She won’t even talk to me, so I can’t imagine I’m much support either.” _

_ “But you are. I want to help you. And then you can help her.” _

_ “And how exactly am I supposed to help?” _

_ “She has to learn it’s not her fault. But she wants it to be her fault so she can push people away. And she pushes people away because she doesn’t want to hurt them. Don’t believe her when she tells you this. She isn’t lying — she doesn’t lie to you anymore. But she’s not telling you the truth either. She doesn’t want to end up alone. She doesn’t want to be forgotten. And if there is no one to love, there is no one to lose.” _

_ “And if she’s so contradictory, how do you imagine I get her to open up?” _

_ “People have hurt her. A lot of people. She doesn’t trust many because of this. But one person hurt her the worst. So bad, it set her mind down a path it’d always been on, but not so strictly. She has never known another way. She’s seen other routes, but never considered them. Now, she doesn’t even look the other way. There’s only one road. Dirty, covered in stone and overgrown with plants long unattended. And it’s because of one person.” _

_ “Who?” _

_ Cole picks at his fingers again, head tilted down so that the top half of his face is obscured by the hat that he’s donned. He’s muttering something unintelligible under his breath (or, perhaps, he’s humming?). Either way, he does not immediately respond. _

_ “I can’t tell you.” _

_ “You can’t? Then why tell me any of this?” _

_ “She doesn’t want you to know. You have to get her to tell you on her own.” _

_ “And how am I supposed to do that? She’s the thickest person I’ve ever met! I can’t even get her to tell me when she was born.” _

_ “She is not alone. Tell her that. She is not a half person. She is her. She is he sometimes. They are them but not the same always. Similar, but never the same. Tell her that. Tell her you adore her.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *finger pistols* actual romance starts next chapter finally hallelujah thank you jesus


	17. The Lottery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will we always be like little kids  
> running group to group, asking who loves me?  
> Don't know who loves me.  
> It's pathetic. It's impossible.
> 
>  
> 
> ([song link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WZHgFxvtPAY))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for reference to child abuse and assault

**— A long time ago —**

 

Idir’s wrists were covered in bruises. Thick dents of purple and black blooming from his dark skin that had paled in the chill of the dusk. The sun hadn’t set fully yet, but there wasn’t enough orange left in the clouds to brighten their moods.

“I should have spoken, mir falon,” he wipes his cheeks, muddy brown strands of hair falling over his shoulders as he attempts to force his shaking under control. “I should have said something. Anything. But I did not hear her. I did not hear her tone and… and I only caught it too late.”

“How can she… how can she do this? How many times can I tell her that you… it’s not your fault — “

“ — I should have said something.”

“It wouldn’t have changed anything! If you had said something, she would have hurt you all the same! She’s not… she’s not angry that you didn’t answer her… she’s angry that we were together. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have shirked responsibilities like that.”

“Why can’t she let us be happy?”

Isa pauses, a hundred angry words shouted in her brain as she considers someone else’s answer to that question. “Because she thinks you make me weak.”

“That’s… that’s unfair! She has never treated you with any kind of love or respect and she wants to pretend she’s doing this for our own well being?”

“I don’t care what she thinks of me anymore.”

“But you do. I know you do. Because I do.”

“No… I don’t. I owe her nothing.”

A pause. Isa crosses her arms over her chest, eyes diverted to the ground. There are bruises on her arms too — long healed, some covered with cloth, but always there. They would never be gone.

“Isa, can I ask you something?” he breaks the silence.

“You can ask me anything.”

“Are we going to be together forever?”

  
  


**— Not quite as long ago —**

 

Isadore presses her palms across the papers in front of her, dim candle light flickering beside her with the chatter and ruckus of the tavern muffled by the door behind her. A thick slab of wood serves as the table, though it’s little more than a flat surface to work on. She sighs, taking a passing moment to scratch at the shaved sides of her head.

“We’ve got one of the servants inside — he’ll leave the back gate unlocked, but we’ll need another escape route. A patrol will be on that gate as soon as we get in.”

“There’s a tunnel underneath the kitchen for garbage disposal. Only one of us can get through that at a time.”

“Where do you see that?”

“Here.”

Idir is pointing at a corner of a poorly recreated map. They’d been unable to smuggle out an original copy of the grounds, so a hastily drawn replica was the best they had to go off of. Isadore could not read his handwritten notes.

“D - i - s - p - o - s - a - l,” he repeats, dragging his thin finger over the word.

“Disposal,” the word is repeated once more, this time by Isadore. “Where does it lead?”

“Off the grounds. Can’t tell where. The map cut off before then.”

Isadore sighs, pulling the parchment off the table to duck it under another piece on the table. She shifts a few pages around until the main floor is in front of her. “It looks like the passage goes right under the, ah... the courtyard.”

“Right.”

“This place is huge.”

“It gets bigger every time we look at it… are you sure this is such a great idea? We might as well try breaking into a palace.”

“It’ll be full of drunk nobles falling off their ass. They won’t even recognize we don’t belong amongst the staff.”

“Because the vallaslin won’t give it away.”

“That’s what the paint is for, dear.”

“I’m still… unsure.”

“You always are. But we’ve been planning this hit for weeks. We’ve got guys on the inside and Ligean will have the horses ready when we’re done.”

“Ah, yes, because the qunari has always been a reliable ally.”

“Hey, she knows what she’s doing.”

“I have no problem with the qunari. Lig is just kind of an idiot.”

“And she’s our idiot. No one else would charge head first into a crowd of royal guard to save our asses, so she stays… outside.”

“It just seems… very risky for some coin.”

“Look… I know why you worry.” The small elf couldn’t lie and say she didn’t sympathize. She feels his pain in a more literal sense than anyone could possibly imagine. But he’s too hesitant. Too… soft. Sure, he’s kept them out of more trouble than she can remember, but his cautiousness held them back.

And it certainly didn’t help that Isadore is so enthralled with proving her own self worth. She took pride in her abilities, and it was a shame she worked in a field where no one would ever know her name.

“But with that big brain of yours, we’ll make sure to cover all our options. And you know this isn’t just for  _ some  _ coin. If that’s all it was, I’d go back to pick pocketing drunkards and not waste my time. But this is enough coin to  _ get us out. _ ”

Idir turns his attention elsewhere, candle light flickering off the gold in his earing. He’s not a particularly well built man, but he’s still lean, so she has no idea how it’s possible for him to look so anxious all the time when he’s a particularly smooth talker with anyone that isn’t her. Maybe it’s because he knows he can’t hide anything from her, so he just doesn’t try.

“I just… I don’t know if that will change anything.”  

His hair is pulled back into a braid, bangs kept off his face by the pale blue cloth wrapped around his head. It stand out against the darkness of his skin, but it hardly distracts from the genuine concern that crosses his face. He rubs at his wrists, shifting the golden bangles the hang there.

“I… we can’t stay. You know that. Before it was just Isenne who looked at us like we didn’t belong, but now it’s… it’s all of them. I can’t stand it.”

“You still love clan Lavellan. I still love them. We can’t just… run away from that.”

“I’ll… I’ll do anything. I just want to be happy with you.”

“We’re going to be happy, alright. But maybe we should… think about this before we get in too deep.”

“... I don’t know if we even have the option of backing out now. We’re the spearheads but… the gang’s bound to be pissed if they don’t get something out of all this work.”

“That’s… something we’ll have to discuss. But right now, it’s just you and me, alright?”

“Just you and me.”

 

**— A longer time ago than before, but not as long as at first —**

 

“He’s my best friend! Please, I won’t slack off, I promise. I just want to play with him like I do with the others!”

Little Isa’s fingers are balled up so tightly into fists they may as well have been rocks. When she shouts, her voice wavers — even though her anger, she knew better than to get too loud. Somewhere in the trees, she can hear the bugs all too scared to buzz closer to this argument.

“He is  _ not  _ your best friend. You will never learn to exist on your own if you don’t stop doting on him like you’re responsible for all his problems. And he’s never going to figure out how to take care of himself if you don’t stop doing everything for him.”

“I swear, I don’t! I don’t do things for him, he’s a really good hunter! Nothing breaks out of his traps!”

“And yet you scream and cry when he’s away for the smallest moment!”

“He’s  _ deaf _ , mother! He can’t hear a thing on his whole left side! That’s why we have to work together! I have to — I have to keep him safe!”

“Enough, child!”

Isa recoils, hands clutched close to her chest as she bites the inside of her cheek. She’s strong, she tells herself. She’s a tough girl. Nothing scares her — she’ll fight and take down anything that tries to hurt her. 

And here she is, flinching away at the slightest movement on her mother’s behalf. Would she grab her wrists and drag her away again? Slap her cheek and condemn her behavior once more? The small elf knew better than to cry. That would expose a weakness and she was not keen on burrowing her way deeper into the fury of her parent.

"You and Idir are too dependent on each other. You need to be apart. You'll thank me when you're not crying every time he scrapes his knee."

  
  
  


**— A very long time ago —**

 

Isenne was pregnant. This much she knew. And at this point, there was nothing to be done. 

Her attempts at herbally terminating the pregnancy had resolved to only getting her sick. She spent weeks with little strength and a parasite inside her that was apparently much hardier than she’d anticipated.

And in spite of all her anger and all her fury, she managed to stay in tact. But that didn’t get rid of the fire burning inside her.

Because that’s all she has to cling to now. She’d been… violated. Taken for granted. And by a man she thought she loved. And he’d left her with a child who’d be born out of mistrust and violence.

Isenne can still feel the bruises on her wrists. She can still hear her own screams ricocheting around her head. Neither would ever go away.

She’ll love it no matter what, she tells herself. She’ll do anything she can to protect it. But still, she knows that her fury is so ingrained in this child, it will never escape.

She will not teach it to love. She will teach it only to depend on itself, to fight for itself. To be a staunch reminder that when you let yourself care about anything other than your own survival, you invite demons into your life.

 

**— Just before this all began —**

 

“You don’t have to do this with me… we’re in trouble because of me in the first place. It’s me that needs to make amends.” 

“You seem to forget that we were  _ both  _ caught trying to rob those nobles. Both of us have a debt to pay.”

Isadore frowns. Why did he need to be so damned stubborn? She was the one that’d made the final call, and yet here he is, trying to help her clean up after herself anyway.

“Besides, we have to do everything together, remember? I don’t want to feel a stabbing pain in my side while you’re away and not know what in Thedas caused it.”

Isa inhales deeply, rolling her eyes. He was, unfortunately, right about that.

When there plans to sneak in on a house of nobles collapsed in on themselves, people got hurt. And clan Lavellan, for whatever reason, defended them. The news of dalish elves committing such a crime spread by morning, but their keeper refused any involvement. Isadore couldn’t tell if he actually believed that, or he simply refused to give any names.

But now Isa owed a debt. No one was coming to collect it, but Lavellan’s name was being dragged through the mud and it was all her fault. She had to do something to correct her mistake.

The mages and the templars were going to come to an agreement. Divine Justinia was going to see to that. And Isa’s first steps towards redemption were going to involve spying on that meeting.

It sounded seedy, but if she could offer the dalish any heads up on the outcome, maybe, just maybe, she could continue to live with the knowledge that she’d put her own people in danger. All because she desperately wanted to get away from them.

And now Idir is insisting he come with her.

“If I don’t watch your back, who will?”

“I love you, but you’re an idiot,” she scoffs.

“Yes, but I’m  _ your  _ idiot.”

 

**— Only a few months ago —**

 

There’s a voice in the back of her head. A voice she really wishes would shut the fuck up.

_ He’s cute. You like him don’t you? You do! _

She grumbles to herself. She’s heard those same words in her dreams every night for the past week. She actually begs for the nightmares to return instead of the snickering of this moron.

She thinks it’s her subconscious telling her all this bullshit. But she can’t tell if that’s worse than the alternative: either her own head is telling her she’s in love with the commander, or Idir is actually still teasing her.

But the words had changed over time. At first, they’d whispered about how nice he is, about how he flushed with color when she made little quips. Then they laughed about how cute he is — how they’d look good together. Then they started insisting the aforementioned: that Isa actually likes him. But the most recent addition is what troubles her most:

_ You can move on. You deserve to be happy. _

“Ah, inquisitor? What do you think?”

“A-about what?”

She’s staring wide eyed at the advisers, who’d gathered at the war table and had obviously been discussing something very important. She had, of course, heard none of it.

“About the troops?”

Isadore had spent the last fifteen minutes wondering if Cullen’s hands are actually calloused or if they’re secretly soft. She’d also been wondering about how his hair works. Like… especially the whole ‘mane’ thing. If you cut his mane, would his regular hair be shorter too? Also, what if he purrs? She needs to know. She used to play with alley cats growing up. They really liked getting scratched under the chin. How’d he get that scar on his lip? He has pretty nice lips. Probably great at kissing —

“Uh… can you repeat that last part?”

 

**— Too recent for time to have healed —**

 

She hears them in the distance. Talking about her. An elf? The so called Herald of Andraste? And such a brash and arrogant one at that? 

A fluke, they call it. A mistake. She is a mistake that was not meant to happen.

It’s as if she is the center of a cruel joke that keeps getting told over and over again.

A mistake. Not meant to exist.

“You should take it with a grain of salt.”

“What?”

“Everything they say. They’re scared, so they lash out at you. Trust me, I’ve been in the same position… except at least I deserved it.”

Isadore does not answer the commander when he speaks to her, she just blinks. Creators, does she hate the mountain air. Haven never had a chance of gaining her favor.

“Alright.”

“I… I’m sorry if I interrupted something.”

“You didn’t.”

She doesn’t even remember his name. He’d introduced himself at some point, she knows, but everything about these people had been drowned out. She could hardly hear half the things they spoke to her, and she cared even less. There was too much swimming around her skull for her to notice.

She’d been crying. All night, in fact. And now, in the cold light of morning, her face had gone stiff from the salt in her tears.

And here’s a man coming to console her? Or attempting to, at least. Sure, she’s distant, but what made him think he has the right to approach her?

“If… it means anything, I believe you.”

“About what.” Her words aren’t even a question; everything out of her mouth is flat and meaningless.

“About the Divine. I do think you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

(She, of course, did not know this at the time, but his super hearing is what lead him to that conclusion. He’d heard it in her voice — in the beat of her heart. She was innocent.)

“Alright.”

(She also did not know at the time, but he was not offended by her callous and empty responses. He had hear her crying.)

The two of them glance out at the soldiers collecting themselves to begin their morning exercises. She doesn’t notice, but he keeps looking at her. Just short flickers of attention, but still —he probably knew he’d upset her.

It wasn’t intentional, of course, but it’d happened. He’d been the one to tell her about the conclave, about how the soldiers hadn’t found any survivors. Everyone there, except for her, had died. It’d been in passing, most everyone already knew about the fatalities, but no one could quite understand why she’d just silently accepted their words and then left. She did not rush from the war room, but she offered them no parting words.

The soldiers and scouts confirmed, no survivors. Except her.

Staring out at the sunrise, she decided that nothing else in this world deserved her love. Especially not the light filtering over the horizon.

 

**— A long time ago —**

 

Isa’s brow narrows. Why would he ever question such a thing?

“Of course we’re going to be together forever,” she responds with hardly any pause. “We’re connected by fate, after all! I can feel when you’re hurt and you can feel when I’m hurt — we’ve got something no one can break. You  _ are  _ my little twin brother. I won’t let anything change us.” 


	18. Complimentary

“I — wait. Where do I put my hand?”

“My waist, Cullen.”

“You — you’re certain?”

“Have you… never seen anyone do this before?”

“No, no I mean — are you — I don’t want to... make things uncomfortable.”

“We’re dancing, Commander. The man typically puts his hand on — you know, nevermind. Just put your hand on my shoulder.”

“I know where it goes I just — is that alright?”

“Boy, just put your hand wherever you want.”

He puts his hand on her shoulder.

“Very professional, Commander.”

Isadore puts her hand on his waist. His entire face is red.

“Please don’t mention this to anyone.”

“I’ll mention it to three people maximum. Promise.”

“I swear I know how to dance.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“I do! I just — I haven’t ever actually danced with anyone. I don’t think. And now it seems so intimate I don’t want to — “

“Make me uncomfortable? I would not have accepted the invitation if I worried about it.”

“Well, yes I — of course.”

“You’re standing still.”

“Am I? Oh — look at that…”

Isadore raises an eyebrow. She was about a breath away from taking the lead, but he’s the one who’d raised the offer, so she’s inclined to give him a minute to figure out exactly where his feet go.

She likes it, though. It’s sweet — how he’d insisted all night he doesn’t dance only to turn around and offer a hand to her on the balcony. The night had been a mess of anxieties; it was some consolation that he’d sought her out just to see how she was doing.

“I thought you were really incredible out there, you know.” The stutter in his voice relaxes when he looks down at her. It’s probably for the best he isn’t resting his hand on her waist — she’s so much shorter than him it’d look ridiculous if she had to reach all the way up just to grasp his shoulder.

“I’m a very good actor.”

“It’s not that,” he sighs, his fingers wrapped around her own. It’s a blessing and a curse that their hands are gloved; she wishes she could feel his skin, but at least he can’t tell just how sweaty her palms are. “You’re very good with people, I think. No matter what they put you through…”

“To be fair, I was barely called rabbit six times throughout the night. Which only proves the Orlesian court was on their best behavior.”

“As they should be. You _are_ the _terrifying_ inquisitor, herald and _warrior_ of Andraste.”

“That’s the title I hope sticks.”

“I’m just proud you didn’t physically injure any politicians.”

“I wouldn’t have had to. Apparently, if anyone crosses me, I can just get my vicious pet lion to eat them.”

Cullen pouts. “Must you?”

“He’s a very sweet lion, I’ll tell them.”

“Yes, well, you can also tell them he feels like an ass for not preventing half the chaos of tonight.”

“You can’t sniff out a traitor, Commander. At the end of the night, justice was still served.”

“By you. While you did all the work, I had a headache digging into the side of my skull as every other woman and man in the court asked where I stand in my love life.”

“And where do you stand?”

“Right here, of course.”

The elf glances down, nervous. It’d bring anyone else in this world comfort to hear those words — that he literally has people lining up to propose and yet he wants to be on this balcony with her.

It’s because she’s not sentimental, she assures herself. But everyone knows that’s not it. She’s not the type to get swept off her feet, to devolve into mush at the very passing of romance, but the novelty of the situation hasn’t settled in her stomach yet. How can you love something so much even though it makes you feel sick? It’s not fair.

“Well you sure do know how to show a girl a good time.” She instead chooses to mask her insecurities with sarcasm as is her standard practice.

“Because nothing shouts romantic evening like foiling assassination attempts.”

“I punched a demon in the face right as it came out of a rift. If that’s not the very definition of amorous, we’ve been approaching this whole thing wrong.”

Cullen snorts in response.

Isadore proceeds to sigh, half tempted to lean against his chest for support, though her temperament inclines her to do otherwise; she’s tired, but not so much so that she’d give in to him that easily. “It looks like it’s supposed to storm.”

“I noticed.” Of course he did — he was a radar for thunder after all. And she’s a beacon for bad things; it only makes sense it’d storm on a night like this. Just add insult to injury, why don’t you?

She pulls away from him and the dance, albeit reluctantly, her face soft as some sort of apology. “It’s really only fitting a night like this end with a storm, huh?”

“I suppose that’s just my luck,” he answers, not particularly torn that their waltz came to an end. Though, his face isn’t perfectly relaxed either; there’s some obvious worry in the crease of his brow. She thinks she knows why.

“Funny. I was just about to suggest it being my luck.”

“We’re both unlucky people, I suppose.” He shrugs. She sighs.

Something tugs at her again. It’d left for a while (or rather, she’d been too wound up in the bullshit of the night to notice), but it’d returned now. Just being out here with him, talking casually as if lives weren’t in their hands — she’s started thinking about what all this means to her.

“Do you believe in fate, Commander?” she prompts, turning away to glance beyong the stone railing.

“What do you mean? Do I believe that things are destined to be?”

“Like… do you believe that two people's existences can be so inexplicably intertwined that… you’re essentially the same person?”

“I… I’m not sure.”

“Neither am I. That’s what scares me.”

Isadore leans over the balcony, the sleeves of her formal attire faintly scuffing against the stone railing. She finds comfort in the night sky in spite of the humidity, but she can’t exactly say she’s enjoying herself. 

“If you mean to say that… you can’t exist without someone else, I don’t think that’s true…”

“No, no, not that at all.” Isa shakes her head softly, not granting Cullen any glances. His company has become more soothing over the days, but her outright emotional breakdown in camp the other day had set sort of an odd tone for their relationship; like a handful of sharp stones protruding from an otherwise empty beach. “I have lived and survived on my own. I mean to say… I would not be the same person if the same tragedies had not occurred. I would not know the Inquisition. I would not have been at the conclave. I would not be at a fancy party stopping assassination attempts and I… would not have known you… but would my life be better if none of this ever happened? I would not know what I missed.”

Cullen does not immediately respond. Isadore had told him nothing of her past. Not yet, at least. Nothing of the several thousand gold bounties on her head and certainly nothing of her deceased twin (though, she’s inclined to believe he’s at least somewhat intuitive enough to have put two and two together at this point).

The truth would come in time. But not here. Not when she’s got at least some fraction of a win to indulge.

“You don’t seem the type to think much on that,” he finally answers, joining her at the balcony. “I mean — you don’t dwell on the past. You have to make the best of what you’ve got, I think... “

Isadore stares out into the night a moment longer before granting him a smile; he was right about one thing: she sure does hate dwelling on the past. And yet….

“I suppose you’re right on that.”

“You’ve got a lot on your mind, Isadore. Nothing will get easier in the upcoming months, but at least for now you can rest easy. At least for a night.”

She grants him only a small smile, but it’s mostly because she’s not inclined to muster more. Because she knows she won’t be resting easy tonight, not when the empress simply _insisted_ the inner circle spend the night in her finer quarters. If it wasn’t apparent, Isa is done with this place. So it’s _great_ she gets to spend another night.

And now she’s thinking about the storm and about Cullen… his eyes keep darting across the balcony and his fingers tap nervously against the stone — he’s already antsy and it doesn’t help that she can match the feeling.

“You’ll at least try and rest easy tonight too, won’t you?” she brings the situation up as subtly as she can manage.

“I always _try_ , Inquisitor.”

She glares at him.

 

* * *

 

The Winter Palace would never be a place of wonder for the Inquisitor. In fact, more a place of dread at this point. It sure was nice of the empress to allow them to quarter in the part of the building not littered with corpses, but the sentiment was still just that. Isadore had saved her life, it was only custom that the poor, savage elf be allowed one night to see how the other half lives.

Fuck nobles.

Her room was apparently the nicest Celine could put out, but Isa felt no reward in that knowledge. She even thought her room back at Skyhold was too big and lavish for her, so you can imagine how she feels about the room dripping in gold and red with ornate tassels strewn onto things that she didn’t really think needed tassels (the curtains? Really? Why?)

But even this could not keep her from sleeping. It almost felt like an act of rebellion, really. How offended could the royal court get knowing they housed an elf who wasn’t in the kitchen or scrubbing the floors?

Nope. The thing actually keeping her awake is the storm. Not that thunder and lightning gets at her, but she knows it gets at someone else.

Cullen. Ever since that night in the tavern, all she thinks about is his hand on her wrist and the shock in his eyes. That would be what she associates storms with until the day she dies.

And maybe she cares too much. Maybe she thinks about the commander too much. Maybe she really shouldn’t replace the image of him in her head with his actual presence, but she’s still up in the middle of the night, walking embarrassingly swift to his quarters just to say she, of course, doesn’t actually care that much about his well being to his face.

But she does.

Her fingers curl into a ball, hesitantly held inches from the door. It’s ornate too. Too ornate. She can see the faint glisten of the gold leaf decorating it as light barely filters through the windows in the hall.

It’s his door she’s standing in front of. She knows this only because she saw a servant show him to it before she’d proceeded on to her own room. It’s his room she’s standing in front of. Just standing. Wondering whether this is a good idea or not.

Lightning hammers against the walls of the palace. Something in his room grates against the floor — some piece of furniture displaced as something else smacked against it.

“Cullen? It’s just me,” she whispers as loud as she can, lest there be some sort of prying eye down either end of the hall. Following her voice is an unsure knock on his door. “You can let me in.”

Silence. Silence except for the rain that splashes like rocks against the windows.

“Cullen, come on — “

There’s a soft click and the door opens. Well, it doesn’t actually open, but it unlocks, which gives her the ability to open it, which she does with obvious trepidation.

“Hey, you doing alright?” she poses a question when it’s apparent that he’s not going to initiate any conversation, carefully closing the door behind her. Hell, she doesn’t even immediately know where he is.

But she finds him quick enough — his back is to her as he leans against the wall, his head resting on his forearm with his other hand dropped to his side. His fingers are curled into fists.

“You really don’t have to babysit me, Inquisitor,” he eventually responds, obviously aggravated by her presence. But aggravated might not even be the right word. His tone, the way each of his words are distinct from each other — no, they came out as more of a growl than anything else.

She was uncomfortable, but it’s for the best that she’s here.

“I know how you get about storms. Thought you’d like some company.”

“How I get?” There’s that growl again, definitely less restrained this time. He only turns half his body to look at her.

“You know what I mean.” She crosses her arms, undeterred.

“Of course. Like a panicked animal, right?” He’s upset, and it shows more apparently when he turns the rest of his body to face her. His brow his narrowed sharply, darkened eyes framing the golden ring of his irises. His lower lip is pouted slightly, giving way to the fact that his teeth are probably too big for his mouth.

“You don’t like storms,” she frowns, unmoved by the obvious undertone of anger in his voice. “That’s what I mean.”

He scoffs. “There are a lot of things I ‘ _don’t like’_ — and yet none of them make me an emotional wreck incapable of functioning like a normal human being.”

“It’s called a fear, Cullen. Everyone’s allowed to have a couple.”

“This is not a fear, Inquisitor. This is — this is a mistake!”

This storm was worse than the last, worse than the one that’d rolled in when they were on their way here. The thunder and lightening were hardly seconds apart, and the flashes were blinding. This wasn’t the kind of storm he could simply sit in his room and endure with moments of discomfort. This is all consuming; every breath is encased in another boom and another flash There is no chance of receding into yourself to hide and pray. Escape is impossible.

“Whatever you call it, it makes you uncomfortable, and that’s the crux of the issue.” _Uncomfortable enough to lash out like an asshole_ , she wants to add, but chooses otherwise, opting instead to take another step into his room towards the bed framed by two massive windows that certainly aren’t helping anything.

“It’s just so… it’s so childish! I’m the commander of an army, for makers sake!” He’s pacing, waving his hands in front of himself as he huffs and pouts. “It’s mere luck I’ve made it this far without absolutely embarrassing myself in front of half of Thedas!”

Isadore frowns. He was a fanatic about some things, and perhaps here his concerns were blown out of proportion, but just because she doesn’t sympathize with this particular fear, it doesn’t mean she can’t understand exactly why he’s upset.

It’s irrational, he knows. It’s the fact that it’s irrational that he’s throwing the fit that he is now. She has to wonder how many times he’s been put in this exact same scenario and simply curled up to wait it out because there was no one there to siphon his complaints onto.

She wants to tell him it’s not childish. She doesn’t believe it’s childish; it’s a fear like any other. But she knows that will mean nothing to him. It won’t change his opinion on the matter, and it certainly won’t stop the boom of thunder outside.

“I’m terrified of the ocean, you know,” she answers, rather calm and unenthused, seating herself on the floor beside the bed after she’s finally dropped her arms from their crossed position.

“What?” He’s been half prepared to start rambling on about the principle of it all, but was somehow cut off by the seemingly unrelated string of words that she let out.

“Mhmm. I guess you’d call it childish, but I’m terrified of the ocean. Really… all big bodies of water. But mostly the ocean. I hate waves. I didn’t when I was little, but I guess it’s a fear I grew into.”

Cullen blinks a few times before narrowing his brow on her. It’s apparent he has no idea what she’s getting at. She sighs softly.

“I can’t swim,” she provides, brushing her bangs from her face. “Not well, at least. I never really learned. Never had too. And then I remember I was on a boat once and it was absolutely terrifying.”

“That’s different,” he interjects, his index finger nervously picking at the skin around his thumbnail. Again, Isa sighs. “That’s… that’s rational.”

“Rational? I could choose to learn to swim any time and yet I don’t. I can easily solve my problem. It’s no more or less rational than being afraid of storms.”

This time, Cullen sighs, sounding exasperated as he runs a hand through his hair and tips his head away so he doesn’t have to make embarrassed eye contact. Isadore simply waits until he turns around to look at her again.

He takes a seat beside her, back pressed to the side of the mattress with his arms lying limp in his lap. He’s looking down at his palms when he takes a long inhale and waits for absolute silence to continue.

“I know it can’t hurt me and still I am this way. And every single time I react the same. I hole up in my room and act as if the world is about to end.”

“Well, hey, if we’re not on top of shit, the world might actually end.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. She scrunches her nose up. Poor taste, Isa.

“I try so hard to cover up everything about me that isn’t, well, _human_ — and yet the slightest interference in my daily life proves time and time again that I can’t make that part of me go away. It’s ridiculous of me to complain about life being unfair, yet here I am doing it anyway.”

“Why try so hard to cover it up then?”

He looks at her with a narrowed brow, expression unmoving and stern. Her question, however, had been legitimate, and she refuses to repeat herself until he’s addressed it first.

“That was rhetorical, right? You can’t genuinely be asking me why —”

“ — We do this every time, Cullen. Every time I bring up who you are, you sneer and ask how I could possibly not know why you so adamantly hide your nature from the world. If I didn’t know the first time, why keep asking me if I’m serious?”

“You’re talking to the man whose _nature_ killed four people nearly within a quarter hour. People don’t tend to shine kindly to murderers.”

“You’re talking to an elf who has two targets for hate crimes branded directly on her face.”

Cullen pauses, as he probably should have done some time ago. She isn’t mad at him — she hasn’t raised her voice this entire conversation, but sometimes men aren’t keen to the dumb words leaving their mouths and she is inclined to retort.

“I’m sorry,” he finally adds, neck craned forward so he’s looking down at his hands again. “I’m sorry that I do this every time. I’m sorry that I get so horribly swept up in my own ridiculous problems that I pretend I’m somehow the most tortured soul in existence. It’s pathetic.”

He presses a palm to his face, rubbing his eyes slowly, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “I had no control over myself as a child. When it would storm, I remember I’d claw at my mother and she would never reprimand me, even though she’d be bleeding and bruised. I worked so hard to make sure I’d never do that to anyone again.”

“Well, you haven’t gotten a claw on me yet, so I’d say you’re doing a decent job,” she laughs, but consciously reminds herself not to rub her stomach. He had in fact gotten a decent swipe in on her, but it was irrelevant; he didn’t need to know and she didn’t care to share.

“I suppose,” he sighs, shaking his head. “I just… always want to know I can be accountable for my actions. That what I do is what I intended to. I’d rather die than lose my mind.”

Isadore inhales deeply; it’d taken him long enough to get to the root of his problems. Cullen was and always will be a bit of a control freak; he’s near obsessive. With a stave shoved halfway up his ass, it’s nothing short of a miracle that he can go a full hour without making sure the soldiers aren’t so much as breathing out of order. And now it’s blatantly apparent where this compulsion comes from — it’d stemmed from a need to control himself and spiraled into an intrinsic desire to control, well, just about every aspect of his life. All because he’s scared one misstep will have someone’s blood on his hands.

“You’re getting dark, Commander. Such talk of death doesn’t suit a face like yours.”

“W-what sort of face is that?”

“You know. _Handsome_.”

He frowns, but it’s not a deeply set frown full of worry, it’s more a frown of confusion. That is to say, he’s had more than a dozen noble men and women call him handsome throughout the night and Isa had not been one of them.

“What — why are you teasing me?”

“I’m not teasing you. That one was genuine. Cross my heart.”

The pout spreads on his face.

“Or would you rather be cute? The wrinkle across your nose right now is absolutely adorable.”

Cullen buries his head in his hands. She can still very clearly tell his face his flush with color though — his reddened ears give him away.

“You’re terrible, Inquisitor,” he whines. “Here we are having a serious chat and you find the time to make me feel like an embarrassed child.”

“I’m sorry you have a weak constitution for compliments.”

“Are you saying that you don’t?”

“Of course not,” she scoffs. “What do I look like?”

“Beautiful.”

“No. Try again.”

“T-that wasn’t me trying to get at you — that was genuine.”

“I am aware. Try again.”

“Try again?”

“Any man can call a woman beautiful, commander. It’s low hanging fruit. I am not so easily taken by compliments.”

“R-right — ah… If you were to fight me in one on one combat, you would win easily.”

“Now _that’s_ a compliment. Just what every woman wants to hear.”

“Yes I’m sure that one would have any woman in Thedas just absolutely swooning.”

Isadore laughs into the side of her hand — a soft and muffled laugh that would threaten becoming a snort if she weren’t so good at stifling such things. It was always a boost to her ego when people reinforced the idea that she could kick anyone’s ass.

“Cullen, would you do me a favor?” She interrupts shortly thereafter, turning her attention to him.

“A favor? What sort?”

“It’s easy. I just need you to hold onto my wrist.”

Cullen gifts her a confused look, obviously not understanding the request. She insists. “Trust me, I have a reason. But I’d hurry up if I were you.”

He does not protest, but he’s still hesitant with his motions, obviously cautious that this is somehow a ruse and the second he touches her she’ll punch him in the face again.

His skin is exactly the same as it’s ever been — softer than you’d probably expect. She relaxes her arm into the grasp, but his grip is so gentle it’s hardly even there. Still, it’s what she asked of him, so his compliance is enough.

“May I ask what this is for?” He nearly stutters when he speaks, which she still finds adorable, but his voice is genuinely curious if not a little worried. He probably still awaits a punch to the jugular.

“You’ll see in a bit. Just go back to talking. Your compliments were getting good.”

“Really now?” he smirks with one brow raised. “Who was it that just said they weren’t easily swayed by compliments?”

“I’m not. But I do love hearing them.”

“What did I just say? Right — you’re terrible.”

“Better to be terrible than a fool.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Says the fool.”

“You injure me, Inquisitor.”

“You’ll heal.”

Cullen pouts the same sappy pout as before, though it’s obviously intentional this go around. He’s awful at being coy and even worse at mustering a coherent string of witty retorts, but at least when he’s scrunching up his face like this he’s pretty cute.

Ugh. She hates him for being cute especially.

There’s a boom outside the window that probably shakes this entire side of the palace, windows vibrating in place as the rain proceeds to slam against the stone facade. But of course the rain isn’t the concern of anyone. The initial strike of thunder sends a shudder across the room that quickly wracks Cullen’s spine into a stiff, upright position.

His hand, the one around her wrist, tightens into a squeeze somewhat less than comfortable, but nothing as terrible as the other men in her past who’ve tossed her around a bar. She only bites the inside of her mouth gently when the faint pinpricks of his claws against her flesh become slightly more grating.

But she doesn’t punch him. She concentrated on that hand and that hand only, waiting for the inevitable moment when he’d jolt and involuntarily grab her again. She knew it was coming, so she gave him the permission to touch her before the incident could even occur. That was the favor she asked of him.

The light outside flashes back into darkness as quickly as it’d formed, but the claws stick around for a few more moments before they sink back into his fingertips. She’d looked at his face for longer than a passing moment and she’d seen the gold in his eyes flare up like lightning — seen the point of his teeth dip into his lower lip. But all of that passed shortly as the stiffness poured out of him faster than it usually did (or, so she assumes).

“...R-right,” he continues softly and with a gentle stutter, probably embarrassed by his momentary lapse in composure — as if she had not fully expected it. “That’s what… that’s what you wanted me to hold your wrist for.”

“If you’re already grabbing me, you can’t, uh, you know, grab me again… I guess.” It made sense when not put into words. At least, not her words.

“That was… smart... “ It sounds like he doesn’t know what to say so he’s just pulling out whatever comes to mind first.

“Well, hey, I, ah, didn’t want to punch you in the face again,” she laughs, but it’s awkward and blatantly forced.

“So — should I — should I… take my hand off your wrist now?”

“No I’d… I mean, the storm isn’t over yet so... “

“I guess — that makes sense.”

“Uh huh. Now I just have to keep you distracted I guess.”

“Distracted? I’m really terrible at coming up with compliments. I don’t think I can keep up with you in this game.”

“You are pretty _terrible_ at it.”

“It is hard to compete with a lady with a smart tongue like you.”

“See, you’re not quite out of compliments.”

“That was probably the last one I could muster — “

Another bolt of lightning. It followed the previous one suit, hardly a minute apart. The thunder came moments later and the routine began to repeat itself — he would hold her wrist tight, let it pass, and then apologize after. Brief small talk would ensue, and the process would start over again.

This would be their storm dance — less than gracefully hopping over any actual conversation about their relationship while attempting to keep him from thinking too hard about why storms actually upset him in the first place.

The thunder rumbles the windows again, the bed gently rocking in place as the whole room settles back into the state it’d been before.

There’s a misstep in the dance.

Isa presses Cullen’s back to the floor, legs straddling his waist as she kisses him less than gently. The room had just finished settling.

His fingers still wrap around her wrist tight for safety, for security. But his free hand tangles in the hair on the back of her head, palm rubbing against the point of her ear while his neck cranes up just slightly to get rid of any possible distance between the two of them.

Her hand separates his chest from hers, but only because she fears she’ll forget to breathe otherwise, harsh pants dragging out from the back of his throat as her lips press to the corner of his mouth. He leans into it, whines muffled by the unfortunately incessant need to take in oxygen.

Fingers trace down her back, consciously starting past her neck, slowly gliding across the fabric of her tunic until he’s got an arm wrapped around her, tugging her out of her kneeling position so her stomach is flush with his instead of that infuriating inch apart.

“Isa…” His breaths are deep and gruff, but they taper off into something softer and more complacent. Her lips are under his jaw, grazing the side of his neck. “... I… “

“I know,” she breathes, nose buried under his chin. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


End file.
